


The Assistant

by FourCornersHolmes, I_am_lampy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Happy Ending, John gets a girlfriend, John is a Good Friend, John is a Very Good Doctor, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romantic Sherlock, Sex, You Have Been Warned, slightly graphic description of childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-05 12:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 76,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10308302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Now that John has to raise Rosie on his own, Sherlock misses having an assistant to help him with cases. Well, really just to marvel at his genius. He decides to hire one and ends up with a woman named Georgia. Their relationship quickly develops into something other than friendship. Then Sherlock finds out that she's not really who she says she is.





	1. Assistant Needed

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a few years from now. Assume it's roughly 2019 minus anything futuristic because really I just wanted to make Sherlock older and explore the idea of what it means for him to accept that he's getting older and even consider the idea of settling down, although - of course - while still totally being Sherlock.
> 
> John shows up further into the story, several chapters down actually and Rosie Watson is adorable.
> 
> Thank you for reading and PLEASE comment. Even if all you say is "nice" or "this sucks", every comment I receive makes me keep writing. You can save this from WIP hell by commenting. It's hard to want to continue if it feels like nobody's reading it!
> 
> Love,  
> Lampy

“We need an assistant,” Sherlock said suddenly into the silence of his sitting room. Nobody answered him back. John’s chair was empty. John had a job and a daughter and interests other than Sherlock. _This_ was why he needed an assistant.

He picked up his phone and sent a text to John.

**SH: I need an assistant. How do I get one?**

**SH: I don’t even remember how I got you.**

**JW: Advertise for one.**

**SH: Advertise where?**

**JW: For God’s sake, Sherlock, in the bloody newspaper.**

“Right,” Sherlock said into his still silent flat.

**SH: How do I put an advertisement in the newspaper?**

**SH: See, if I had an assistant, I wouldn’t have to ask you these things.**

**JW: Google it. Rosie is cranky and I haven’t had much sleep. Go away.**

“Right,” Sherlock said again and cracked open his laptop.

~*~

“Anyone under the age of thirty can leave,” Sherlock said looking over the line of people that led from his front door into the front entry and out on the sidewalk. Several people peeled out of line and disappeared. That still left far too many people. “Anyone who came here for an autograph can also leave,” he said and at least half of the people left, grumbling as they went. Sherlock smiled. That was more like it. He did a head count and groaned. He stalked along the line and swept critical eyes over the people left.

“You, you, and you can go,” he said. “And you. And you, you, you. Yes, thank you for coming, move along.”

He took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back while he took a slow walk in front of the remaining candidates. There were fourteen left. Wait, no…fifteen.

At the end of the line there was a woman with dark hair sitting cross legged on the floor reading a book. The sheet of her hair hid her face. Suddenly she laughed loudly at what she was reading and everyone turned to look at her. Sherlock stepped slowly towards her.

“What’s your name?” he asked when he stopped in front of her.

“Georgia,” she said without looking up.

“Why are you here?’ he asked.

“The assistant’s job,” she said, again without looking up. Her accent was American. Sherlock frowned. He didn’t want an American. Or a woman for that matter.

“Can you--”

“I can’t read if you’re talking to me. Go away.”

“But I live here,” Sherlock said indignantly. His eyes ran over her hair and face and clothes.

“You’re the detective?” she asked finally looking up.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

“Not obviously,” she scoffed and closed the book around her finger. “Are you going to interview me now? Because if not, I would like to get back to my book.”

“You’re very rude,” Sherlock said.

“So are you,” she replied.

Sherlock was still frowning. She--Georgia--wasn’t easy to read and that never happened to Sherlock.

“Everyone, out!” Sherlock bellowed.

More grumbling and shuffling ensued. Georgia began packing up her stuff and slung her bag over her shoulder and Sherlock realized he hadn’t clarified his intentions.

“Not you,” Sherlock said and turned around to head back upstairs. He was halfway up before he realized Georgia was still in the entryway. “Well, come on. I don’t have all day,” he said, leaning over the banister.

Georgia sighed and trudged up the stairs after him.

~*~

“Sit there,” Sherlock said when they were in the flat. He pointed at John’s chair.

“I don’t want to sit there,” she said and turned towards the couch.

“Why ever not?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t think he had stopped frowning since he had first seen her.

She shrugged without looking at him. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

“I hardly see how that will work if you’re going to be my assistant,” Sherlock huffed.

“I’m not your assistant,” she responded absentmindedly squinting at the bullet holes on the wall.

“But I just hired you!” Sherlock said and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

Georgia turned around slowly, set her messenger bag down on the coffee table and smiled slyly at him. “Oh, in that case,” and sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. She was dressed in jeans and a black shirt. The jeans were unremarkable, not designer. Generic brand then. Her shirt was cotton knit. They were worn but not badly. He could see the outline of her bra through the fabric when she turned her back to him. Her lips were chapped. Hair dark and all one length. No wedding ring. No jewelry at all except a digital watch. About his age. Tall, around five foot eight. Small breasts and trim waist. Attractive in a scrubby, hippie kind of way.

He had walked closer to her without realizing it. She was completely uninteresting on the outside and yet there was something in the set of her shoulders and the smile that was mostly in her eyes that made him want to study her closer.

“What are your qualifications?” he asked, snapping his spine ramrod straight and clasping his hands behind his back. He walked a few paces away from her.

“You’re only asking that now?” she said, huffing in laughter.

Sherlock whirled around. “What do you mean?”

“You should’ve asked that during the interview. Unfortunately there was no interview so…” and she spread her palms in a gesture suspiciously like a shrug.

“Well, I’m asking now,” Sherlock snapped.

“I am qualified for many things,” she snapped back. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side narrowing his eyes.

“Let me guess. You got a degree in liberal arts and after ten years couldn’t find a job in your chosen field. So you moved to England--what are you doing?”

“Taking my book out,” she said before opening it up.

“Are you--are you _reading_?”

“Yep,” she said without looking up. Why wouldn’t she _look_ at him? It was like she had better things to do or that she found him _boring_.

“I’m talking to you and as your employer I--“

“No,” she said looking up at him and fixing him with a stony glare. “You’re trying to reduce me to a paragraph of words based on a handful of impressions you’ve made of me in the last ten minutes. I’m not interested in hearing it. If you feel like you have to continue, then by all means. Until you’re finished I’ll be reading. Oh, and--.” She pulled earbuds out of her bag and plugged them into her ears. “Blocking out your voice.” Then she gave him a one-sided smile, tapped her phone, settled deeper into the couch and proceeded to ignore him.

~*~

Sherlock spent thirty minutes surreptitiously watching Georgia while she read. He stepped into and out of the kitchen several times and she never looked up. Not once. Not even if he got very, very close. Much to his irritation, he found himself developing a grudging respect for her ability to ignore him. She was interesting if only because she seemed to find him uninteresting. But he had no idea what to do with her. What he had really wanted was a new John, someone who could offset his brilliance. Maybe he should just fire her. Oh, God, then he would have to look for a new assistant. She would have to do.

He swept into the sitting room from the kitchen and the words on his lips stuttered and died when he found her looking at him, her hands clasped in her lap. She gave him a spare and elegant smile and raised both eyebrows. She was no longer reading or listening to music. Everything was put away in her bag.

“Maybe you could start by telling me what my duties are,” she said. Her voice was deep for a woman and while not precisely _loud_ , it was certainly not quiet.

Sherlock frowned at her and then inspiration hit.

“One of your duties is to sit in _that_ chair,” he said, indicating John’s chair with a jut of his chin.

Georgia picked up her messenger bag and got up, slowly, and walked towards the chair. Sherlock watched her the whole time. Her tread was light and her limbs were loose, her demeanor easy and relaxed. So she was a bit like John in that way. Good, good.

She sat down in the chair, dropping her bag next to it. Sherlock expected it to make a thud but she controlled its descent so that it landed softly against the floor. Then she did something so unexpected that Sherlock couldn’t think for a few seconds, much less speak. She brought her hands together in a steeple against her chin, the pads of her index fingers touching her bottom lip and the pads of her middle fingers resting against her top lip and looked at him over the top.

“Why did you do that?” he snapped.

Her eyebrows furrowed and she cocked her head to the side, leaving her hands together but no longer touching her lips. Sherlock found his eyes drawn to her lips. _Ugh_ , he thought narrowly stopping himself from rolling his eyes. Effortlessly, he let the sexual attraction wash out of his body. It was easy enough to ignore those things; he had been doing it most of his life.

Motion caught his attention. She had crossed her feet at the ankles. She was wearing canvas sneakers and there was a narrow strip of skin between the tops of her sneakers and the bottom of her jeans. There was a fine tracing of veins along the sharp jut of her ankle bone. A small white scar no bigger than a thumbnail was visible on one edge.

“Holmes!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sherlock asked snapping his eyes to Georgia’s.

“I said why did I do what?” Georgia said and Sherlock struggled to remember what they were talking about.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, waving his hand in the air. “Irrelevant.”

“Well, if you’re done staring at my feet, maybe you can tell me what I’m supposed to be doing here. Other than sitting in this chair,” she said and patted the arms. She was leaned back in the chair and Sherlock couldn’t help thinking that she already looked quite at home in John’s chair. John would probably be happy about that. But then again, people didn’t like to be replaceable. Even though they were. If you had a girlfriend and she broke up with you then eventually you got another girlfriend, at least most of the time. That’s what happened on the telly at any rate. Sometimes it was even the same boyfriend although usually he was married to someone else by that point. Relationships were so complicated and annoying and useless.

“Will I just be sitting in this chair or are there other duties? Maybe you could make me a list,” Georgia said and looking at her face Sherlock couldn’t help but think that she was making fun of him.

“The reason I hired an _assistant_ ,” he said very condescendingly, “is so I wouldn’t have to make lists. Surely, you have pen and paper in that hulking garbage bag at your feet. Unless you’re a poor assistant.”

Georgia leaned down slowly and picked up her bag. She took out a notebook and pen and put her bag back down. Sherlock noticed that everything Georgia did was very deliberate; there were no unneeded extra gestures, no hesitation on her part, no digging around trying to find what she was looking for. She might make an excellent assistant after all.

She uncapped her pen and wrote something in her notebook.

“What are you writing?” he asked, trying to peer over the top of the page.

She held up the notebook and turned it around to face him. It said:

**Duties:**

  1. **Sit in The Chair**



Then she set it back down on her knee and looked at him expectantly, her eyebrows raised.

“It’s not _The Chair_ ,” he mumbled. “There’s no need to capitalize it.”

“It’s clearly very important to you,” she answered, although Sherlock thought she probably cared very little about what was important to him. When he was silent she prompted him. “Other duties?”

“Yes, of course,” and then he furrowed his brow. “Listening. Taking notes. You’ll accompany me to crime scenes and--”

“Oh, no. No, I won’t.”

Sherlock stared at Georgia in amazement. “But that’s what I _do_. I’m a _detective_. Therefore, I need to go to crime scenes and since you’re my _assistant_ , I’ll need you to accompany me!”

“I don’t do crime scenes,” Georgia said very calmly.

“What do you mean you don’t _do_ crime scenes?”

“The advertisement didn’t say anything about accompanying you to crime scenes. It said, and I quote, ‘Personal assistant needed for consulting detective. Apply 221B Baker Street Friday morning at 9:00.’”

“Well, what on earth did you think a detective’s _assistant_ was supposed to do if not accompany said detective to crime scenes?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Holmes,” Georgia said and groaned in exasperation. “An explanation of my duties is what we’re supposed to be _talking_ about here!”

“Yes, and one of your duties is to accompany me to crime scenes! And your language is deplorable. There’s no need for expletives.”

“Oh, really?” she said sarcastically. “I would imagine that anyone who spends more than fifteen minutes in your presence would find a _great_ need for expletives. And if accompanying you to crime scenes is one of my duties, then I’m afraid I can’t work for you,” she said and capped her pen.

Sherlock rubbed his fingers through his hair in frustration. “What exactly is your objection to accompanying me to crime scenes?”

Georgia took a deep breath and rubbed her own fingers through her hair before responding. “I thought this job was as a secretary, Holmes. Not an assistant detective. I have no qualifications whatsoever for detective work. I came to London on a yearlong fellowship to do research for my Ph.D. in sociolinguistics but I’ve decided to stay. I’m applying for a visa and getting a job helps my chances of getting approved not to mention one needs money to buy things like food and keep a roof over one’s head. There. Now you know all my dirty little secrets.”

Sherlock stared at her in wordless amazement. “I would never have guessed sociolinguistics,” he muttered to himself. “Fascinating.”

“Yes. So that’s why I can’t accompany you to crime scenes.”

Georgia waited but Sherlock continued to stare at her without acknowledging what she had said. “Holmes?” she prompted.

“Then how will you take notes?” Sherlock asked.

“How did your previous assistant take notes?” she asked.

“He accompanied me to crime scenes,” Sherlock said.

“Fine,” Georgia grumbled. “But I’m not getting near any dead bodies.”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” she said and looked down at the notebook.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied.

Georgia wrote something else in the notebook.

“Now what are you writing?”

“For fu--I mean, I’m writing down the next thing on the list of my duties,” she said and Sherlock noted the tense muscles in her jaw.

“Good,” he responded.

“When we’re done with the list of my duties, we’ll need to discuss pay,” Georgia said looking up at him.

“Pay?” he asked, scowling.

“Pay,” she said. “As in how much you will _pay_ me for this job. And since the hours are clearly not going to be regular,” she sighed, “then we also need to discuss how many hours a week I’ll be able to commit to you as well as what days I’ll have off and whether or not I can--”

“Good God, Georgia,” Sherlock interrupted with a wave of his hand. “You’re my assistant. I can’t be bothered to think about all this minutiae.”

Sherlock could almost hear Georgia glowering at him from the other chair.

“Could you at least tell me how much you’ll pay me per hour so I can plan ahead?”

“How much do assistants normally get paid?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” she replied. “This is my first job in London. I could tell you how much a personal assistant might get paid where I’m from and convert it to pounds.”

“Do that,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Will I be hourly or salaried?” she asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before reaching for his phone. He dialed Mycroft’s number.

“What is it, Sherlock, I’m very busy at the moment,” Mycroft drawled.

“I have an assistant. I need you to talk to her.”

“Whatever for?” Mycroft asked, annoyed.

“Because she’s asking me questions I can’t be bothered to answer,” Sherlock said and thrust the phone towards Georgia.

Georgia looked at it and then looked up at Sherlock who wiggled it impatiently. She took it and held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“I’m very busy so please be quick with your questions,” the man on the other end said.

“Who is this?” Georgia asked.

“My name is Mycroft. I’m Sherlock’s older brother,” he said and then there was a pause before he added, “I would never have guessed Sherlock would hire an American or a woman. How fascinating.”

Georgia could definitely see the similarities between the two. The arrogance that rolled off the both of them was so pronounced it was almost tangible.

“I’m glad you’re fascinated. It’s really made my day,” Georgia said and Sherlock couldn’t help the twitch of his lips that was almost a smile. “My name’s Georgia. I’m Holmes’s new assistant but he can’t tell me how many hours a week I should work, whether I’m to have a salary or be paid hourly. I’ve been here over an hour and so far he’s barely managed to work out what my duties should be and only two of them so far, one of which is to sit in The Chair.”

There was a sigh on the other end and then Mycroft said, “A phone number and name is being texted to your mobile phone. Any questions you have about the practical aspects of your employment for my brother can be answered by the person at that number. Please feel free to think of that person as _your_ personal assistant and trust me, working for Sherlock you’ll _need_ one.”

“How do you know my mobile number?” Georgia asked, alarmed.

“My dear, I work for the British government. It’s really better that you not know how these things are possible.”

“Okay, then,” Georgia said just as she heard the sound of her mobile phone notifying her of a text. “Thank you. I think.”

“Indeed. Goodbye. Oh, and tell Sherlock not to put any more advertisements in the newspapers. Lord knows, far too many unsavory characters know his address. He doesn’t need to invite any more scrutiny.”

“Right. Goodbye,” Georgia said and handed the phone back to Sherlock. “He said not to put any more advertisements in the paper.”

“I never put advertisements in the bloody newspaper. I have no idea what he’s on about. So. Did he answer your questions?”

Georgia bent down to retrieve her phone from her messenger bag. She checked her text messages. “No, but Sativa can,” she said and with a sly smile, held up her phone for Sherlock to see. “She’s--he’s?-- _my_ personal assistant.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sherlock said with unfeigned relief.

“Quite,” Georgia said quietly, with great emphasis on the ‘T’. “Duties?”

“We already discussed all that, for God’s sake. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?”

Georgia groaned and threw her head back against the top of the chair before rubbing her hands roughly over her face.

“Holmes, you don’t need an assistant. You need a _babysitter_ ,” she said, her voice strangled because of the angle of her throat. A terribly erotic picture of Georgia naked with her head thrown back like that flashed through Sherlock’s mind and he immediately deleted it.

“This isn’t going to work if you’re constantly making me think about sex,” Sherlock said huffily before he could censor himself.

Georgia froze and then very slowly lowered her head to look at Sherlock. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her voice coated with ice.

“Erm,” Sherlock said and then closed his mouth. And then opened it again. And then closed it. Again.

“I am not _making_ you think about anything. If you are thinking about sex, Holmes, I can assure you it is through no fault of my own.”

Even with the American accent, Georgia sounded almost exactly like Mycroft when he was being condescending with Sherlock. Then he found himself blushing furiously and attempting to mumble out an apology until he heard Georgia’s laugh, loud and bright, fill the flat. He scowled at her but then felt an inexplicable urge to smile without any idea why.

~*~

“Where are we going?” Georgia asked as she joined him breathlessly on the sidewalk.

“Why are you breathing like that?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Because I just ran from the bus stop,” she said. “You said it was urgent.”

“Oh, right. Here’s our cab.”

Sherlock opened the door and slid in and attempted to shut the door but Georgia caught it in her hand.

“Scoot over!” she said impatiently, gesturing at the seat next to him. “I’m not going around the other side. I’ll get hit by a car.”

“Honestly, Georgia, if you can’t navigate your way around a--”

She ignored him and forced him bodily to retreat to the opposite side of the back seat. Then she leaned forward and asked the cabbie, “Are there no seatbelts back here?”

Both the cabbie and Sherlock looked at Georgia in confusion.

“Never mind,” she muttered and slid over to the middle of the seat, making Sherlock crowd up against the door.

“What are you doing?” he cried. “Get over on your side.”

“The middle is the safest place to be if we’re hit from the side,” she said, ignoring him.

“I don’t care! This is my side and that’s your side. So go to your side.”

Instead she crowded up closer against him, causing his face to grimace in distaste.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I invading your personal space?” she asked, tilting her head to the side in feigned innocence.

Sherlock had his arms lifted almost above his head, trying to squeeze his body into the most compact shape possible.

“You know very well you are,” he huffed.

She moved back to the middle and Sherlock took a deep breath of relief before straightening his coat and brushing his palm down the front of his shirt. He leaned over to the cabbie to give him the address and then glanced at Georgia who was looking out the front window and smiling slyly.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” she said shaking her head.

“Georgia,” he said in a warning voice.

“You were uncomfortable with me sitting in the middle because it was an intrusion into what you consider the boundaries of your personal space. Moving closer to you caused you to be much more uncomfortable so that when I moved back to the middle, you were able to relax about me being in the middle, which is what I wanted in the first place.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance but had to concede her point. _Damn._

“So. Where are we going?” she asked.

“John’s,” he said and turned his head to look out the window.

“Who is John?” Georgia asked.

“What do you mean, who is John? Everyone who knows who I am knows who John is,” he said dismissively without looking away from the window.

“I’m sure they do, Holmes, but let’s just assume, for the sake of argument, that I’ve been in another country until the last six months and didn’t even know who you were until a month ago and humor me by telling me who John is.”

“Why do you call me Holmes?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep himself from scowling. She was always doing or saying things that made him frown. He didn’t think he had frowned this much in his entire life.

“I’ll tell you what. You tell me who John is and I’ll tell you why I call you Holmes,” she said.

“John is my friend,” he said, enjoying the way it sounded coming out of his mouth. “You’re the new John,” he said by way of more explanation. “The chair you sit in is his.”

“I’m not the new John,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, obviously, you’re not quite the same--”

“I’m not your friend,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m your employee.”

“Well…” Sherlock said and then pursed his lips. “Yes, I realize that. I just mean that John used to have your job.”

“Oh? How much did he get paid for running around after you?”

Sherlock snapped his head in her direction eyebrows raised in alarm.

“I didn’t _pay_ John!” he said, offended.

“No?” she asked.

“Of course not!”

“Well, then you’re a terrible friend,” she murmured.

“He lived with me,” he said primly

“Oh,” Georgia said, drawing the word out in a way that immediately had Sherlock jumping in to correct her.

“No, no, not like _that_. I’m not gay. Neither is John for that matter.”

“Oh. As usual, Holmes, you have done a bang-up job of clarifying things for me. Working for you is like working for someone with Alzheimer’s and schizophrenia.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, offended. “And please do stop calling me Holmes. My name is Sherlock.”

“Sherlock _Holmes_ ,” she added.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Georgia, you’re riling me up on purpose. And I have none of the symptoms of either Alzheimer’s _or_ schizophrenia so I hardly see how your comment is relevant."

Georgia let out a long-suffering sigh that made Sherlock think affectionately of John and ignored him for the rest of the drive.

~*~

Twenty minutes later, John was answering the door with Rosie balanced on one hip.

“Isn’t she old enough to walk?” Sherlock asked John, pushing his way into the house, forcing John to step aside or be bowled over.

“Yes, do come in, Sherlock,” he said sarcastically and then saw Georgia standing there. “Oh. Hello.”

“This is Georgia,” Sherlock said and swept his hand towards her.

“The assistant!” John said. “Please, come in. I’ve been very eager to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Georgia said, smiling and stepped inside.

“Sh’lock!” Rosie said and held out her arms.

“Oh, yes, alright,” he grumbled and took her from John’s arms, noticing the smile that Georgia was bestowing on John as she shook his hand. She never smiled at Sherlock like that!

“I’m the new you,” Georgia said with a grin and teasing shrug of her shoulder. Oh, God, was she flirting with _John_? Disgusting. She was two inches taller than him, at least!

“Well, thank you very much for taking over the job of being me. I was getting very tired of trying to keep up with him,” John said, smiling hugely.

“Sh’lock das ma bunny,” Rosie said and pushed a stuffed bunny into Sherlock’s face. “Oh, why frowndyface?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, distracted from studying John and Georgia together. He pulled back his face to look at Rosie.

She put one tiny hand on either side of his face and said, “No frowndyface, Sh’lock. Smiyah,” and then beamed at him.

Despite his distaste for social interaction with people and especially with babies, Sherlock found himself smiling back at Rosie who nodded her head confidently. “Smiyahface. Who dat gir?”

“Rosie, this is Georgia,” John said and Rosie turned her beautiful face towards Georgia who, Sherlock was strangely proud to see, did not turn into a baby-talking idiot around Rosie. The fact that she wasn’t cooing at Rosie made him feel highly vindicated in his choice of assistant despite the constant annoyance he felt at the way she constantly distracted him from his work.

Georgia nodded politely at Rosie and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Rosie.”

“Sh’lock frowndyface,” Rosie said solemnly.

“Yes, he does that a lot,” Georgia said equally solemnly while Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them.

“I’m sorry, are you having a discussion about my current emotional state with a three year old?”

Georgia looked at him and said, “Holmes, you should be more aghast about the fact that Rosie is more adept at determining your emotional state than you are,” and when John guffawed loudly into the gap between them, Sherlock had no reprieve except to roll his eyes.

“Georgia, come sit down. Anyone who can put Sherlock in his place is welcome here,” John said. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“I’m not sure. Holmes, are we actually on a case or is this a social visit?”

Sherlock turned from Rosie to Georgia and lifted his eyebrows in thought. “A social visit,” he decided and then was alarmed to see John and Georgia exchange a look--a very _knowing_ look--that made Sherlock feel quite left out.

“Fantastic,” John said, clapping his hands together. “So, red? White?”

“Do you have any brandy?” she asked scrunching up her nose in a way that Sherlock almost but not quite found somewhat but not overly adorable.

“I can do that,” John said smiling and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Oh, get down, Watson, you weigh more than my couch,” Sherlock muttered putting Rosie on the floor. Rosie picked her bunny up off the floor and carried it over to Georgia.

“Das ma bunny,” Rosie said holding it up for Georgia to see.

Sherlock settled himself in the chair across the coffee table from Georgia and watched Georgia and Rosie interact. Sherlock had never met anyone other than himself who didn’t talk baby talk to Rosie. Instead, Georgia schooled her facial expressions to match Rosie’s and when Rosie was serious, Georgia was serious and when Rosie laughed, Georgia laughed. Within a few minutes Rosie was rambling along, making very little sense and Georgia was nodding and laughing and frowning as though she was having a conversation with an _actual_ person rather than just a grimy unintelligible toddler.

Sherlock felt a stirring of affection in his breast for Georgia. Everyone liked Rosie. Even Sherlock liked Rosie and not just because he had made a vow to take care of her. But Georgia treated Rosie like she _mattered_ and while he liked that about Georgia, he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous that Rosie seemed to matter to Georgia when he himself did not. He huffed and uncrossed his legs and then crossed them with the opposite leg on top this time and the movement alerted Georgia. She looked at him, still smiling at something Rosie had said and for a few seconds, Sherlock was struggling under the full weight of Georgia’s smile, which was radiant in a way that suggested there was some incandescent inner working in Georgia that only came out in the presence of other people as though she turned off the light when she was around him. Sherlock wanted Georgia to smile at him like that rather than having to experience it secondhand. He knew he wasn’t a nice person; he didn’t do nice. But he wasn’t so detestable as to be unworthy of a smile like that. After all, John liked him and Georgia liked John so surely Georgia could like Sherlock? _Ugh_ , he thought to himself. Of course, that’s why he was here with Georgia. John would help him sort out all of these… _feelings_ …and then he could get on with his work.

“Here you go,” John said handing a glass of brandy to Georgia and thereby saving Sherlock from any more distracting thoughts about her.

“Oh, thank you,” Georgia said and took a sip.

“So, I hope you’re not letting Sherlock work you like a slave.”

“Oh, no,” she said laughing and there it was _again_. Sherlock imagined he could see the colorful luminescence of her laugh rising up from that inner radiance and out of her mouth, infusing the room with its warmth. “I don’t really do much except make tea so we're not bothering Mrs. Hudson and run around after Holmes taking notes and then, of course, sitting in your chair and listening to him thinking out loud. As far as I can tell, I’m really not very important in the grand scheme of things but he likes to have someone around to bounce ideas off of, I think.”

John laughed. “You’ve absolutely nailed it. Any interesting cases?” John asked, looking between them.

“You’re important,” Sherlock said abruptly to Georgia. “I don’t know why you would say you’re not important. I would have fired you if you weren’t important.”

Georgia turned her head and looked at Sherlock, her lips parted slightly and she wasn’t frowning or cocking an eyebrow at him in annoyance or smiling slyly in all those ways he’d come to think of as distinctly _Georgia_ , all the ways in which she constantly proved to him that she was completely unaffected by anything about him. The look on her face could only be described as _dawning realization_.

Sherlock stood, abruptly and said, “John. Kitchen.”

“Right,” John said and he and Georgia exchanged another one of those _knowing_ looks. “Excuse me,” John said to Georgia.

Once they were in the dim light of the kitchen, John leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and said, “I like her,” with more enthusiasm than Sherlock thought was strictly necessary.

“I noticed,” Sherlock said sharply and paced a few times before coming to a stop in front of John. “You were flirting with her.”

John huffed in disbelieving laughter and uncrossed his arms and settled his hands on his hips. “We weren’t flirting, Sherlock.”

Sherlock started to open his mouth but John cut him off.

“Just because a man and a woman smile at each other and share a laugh doesn’t mean they’re flirting.”

“She doesn’t smile at me like that,” Sherlock said, wincing at how resentful his voice sounded.

“Oh, gee, I wonder why,” John said flatly.

“Yes, yes, I know. Bad at feelings, etc.”

Sherlock began pacing again.

“Sherlock,” John said cautiously. “Is there a reason we’re in here gossiping about Georgia? I mean, other than the fact that she doesn’t smile at you the way she smiles at me?”

To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t immediately answer.

“I can’t read her!” he said and slapped the counter in frustration before standing up and rubbing his hands vigorously through his hair. “She’s making me crazy. When she’s there I spend all my time trying to get her attention. I mean, she gives me her attention but she has this face” Sherlock swirled his hand over his own face “this blank, attentive face that says ‘I’m listening but I don’t really care about anything you’re saying,’ which just _infuriates_ me and when she’s not there I spend all my time trying to come up with reasons for her to be there. She seems to like everyone in the whole world except me and I’m the one person she needs to like!”

“And why does she need to like you exactly?” John asked, cocking his head in confusion.

“Because she works for me!” Sherlock said throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Sherlock, you do understand that she doesn’t have to like you to work for you, right?”

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. “No, I do _not_ understand that.” He started to pace again. “If she doesn’t _like_ me then she won’t want to work for me anymore so I have to get her to like me which is why we’re here. You can make her like me. Tell her all the wonderful things that _you_ like about me.”

John rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Sherlock. Are you _attracted_ \--”

“Of course I want to have sex with her, John! Haven’t you been listening?”

“Right,” John said and clapped his hands together. “Well. I think you need to talk to Georgia about this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him in horror. “That’s _exactly_ what I don’t want to do! For God’s sake, John, I brought her here so _you_ could talk to her.”

They started at the sudden sound of Rosie’s babbling growing closer.

“Is there a boys only party going on in the kitchen?” Georgia asked, coming around the corner with Rosie in her arms.

The smile on Georgia’s face was curious but with that sly lilt to her lips that Sherlock had come to think of as distinctly _Georgia_ and her smile made him want to run away. Well, no, it made him want to kiss Georgia, and _then_ run away. He was so good at keeping these feelings repressed and he absolutely hated it when they couldn’t be.

“Juhjuh, Sh’lock frowndyface,” Rosie said to Georgia, but Georgia was looking at John who had left Sherlock’s side.

“C’mon, love, let’s go read one of your books,” John said as casually as he could, tugging Rosie out of Georgia’s arms. When he was behind Georgia’s back he turned around and glared at Sherlock, while pointing his finger aggressively towards Georgia.

“Holmes?” Georgia asked with a lift of her eyebrow. “Are you coming back to the living room or are you going to sulk in here in the dark?”

“I’m not sulking,” Sherlock said.

“No?” Georgia asked lightly.

“What would I be sulking about?” he asked stiffly.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied, her voice still airy and unconcerned. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Sherlock looked at her in horror. “Good God, no!” he said.

Georgia spread her palms in a shrug that was distinctly _Georgia_ and began to turn to leave the kitchen and, without making any conscious decision to do so, Sherlock lunged forward snagging his fingers in her sleeve and stopped her.

“Why do you treat me the way you do? You don’t treat anyone else that way. Not even Lestrade! It’s like you don’t even really care to work for me. Is that it? Are you bored working for me?”

Georgia stared at Sherlock with eyes wide with shock. She was tall enough that her nose was level with his chin. She was backed up against the counter and Sherlock put one hand on either side of her, gripping the counter so tightly his fingers ached. He bent his head, his lips only a hand width away from her lips.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked hoarsely.

She brought her hands up to his chest and he exhaled in anticipation of her touch but when she laid her hands on his chest she _pushed_ him. At first he didn’t understand but then she pushed him again, her expression never changing from wide-eyed confusion and Sherlock stepped back, his arms dropping to his sides. He discovered he was breathing heavily and closed his eyes in humiliation. She wasn’t breathing heavily; she didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Everything about her was the opposite of him. She was quiet even though her voice was loud and projected well and she thought before she spoke and she was only ever _purposefully_ rude rather than accidentally; if he was a hurricane then she was the calm eye in the middle and John liked her and Rosie liked her and Sherlock really, really liked her and he really hated that.

Georgia gave Sherlock one last wide-eyed look as though she still couldn’t comprehend what had happened between them in those few moments and then she turned and walked slowly out of the kitchen.

Sherlock barely suppressed the shout of frustration he wanted to release and instead stalked from the kitchen and through the living room without sparing a glance to the other three people there before slamming his way through the front door.

~*~

“I almost hate to ask,” John said into the quiet of Sherlock’s departure.

Georgia looked dazed. “Even if you did, I’m not sure I could answer,” she said and then laughed once, abruptly.

“Let him walk it off,” John said. “Sit down and finish your drink. Rosie and I will keep you company until he gets back.”

“Yes, I think I will,” Georgia said and sank into the chair opposite the one Sherlock had sat in before rubbing her hands across her face in a gesture that John thought of as distinctly _Sherlock_.

“Juhjuh,” Rosie said and put her hands on Georgia’s knees.

“What darling?” Georgia asked, leaning forward.

“Juhjuh, Sh’lock go ow dat door mad,” Rosie said solemnly.

“I know, sweet pea,” Georgia answered.

“You make Sh’lock mad?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to,” Georgia said quietly.

Rosie clambered up into Georgia’s lap as though she had known Georgia forever and John’s heart squeezed with love for Rosie and the sweet way she had of tending to the people she loved. Even Sherlock’s professed intolerance of children didn’t hinder Rosie’s ability to make him smile.

Rosie grasped Georgia’s face in her tiny hands and said, “Juhjuh, you go ow dat door give Sh’lock dat smiyah. Sh’lock need dat smiyah.”

“Oh, Rosie,” Georgia said, squeezing Rosie in her arms. “You’re a genius, you know that?”

Rosie nodded her head vigorously, beaming. “I uh jeenus,” she said in agreement.

Georgia tilted her head back and laughed and John laughed and Rosie laughed and John thought that for the first time in Sherlock’s life he might actually have found a woman who could not only stand him but fit neatly into his life without giving up anything of herself to do so.

John let Rosie jabber at Georgia for a few minutes before he said, “Sherlock seems to think you don’t like him.”

Georgia frowned and petted Rosie’s cornsilk hair down absentmindedly. “I honestly don’t know why he thinks that,” she said finally.

“He told me you never smile at him,” John said with a chuckle.

“But I do!” Georgia said, laughing with incredulousness. “He makes me laugh all the time. He’s so brilliant and unintentionally funny but that just makes it funnier, you know?”

“I do know,” he said, nodding his head.

“He’s very likable. To me, at any rate, although I can absolutely see why most people can’t stand him. I suppose that’s a little harsh.”

“Not at all,” John said.

Georgia busied herself with Rosie and ducked her head shyly. “He tried to kiss me.”

“Oh, Lord,” John said with a groan and rubbed his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. “He’s not very good at that sort of thing.”

“I would go so far as to say he’s very _bad_ at that sort of thing. He seemed angry at me. I was shocked, as you can imagine. I know he likes me in a platonic sense. I had no idea that he had any sexual attraction for me. He made a joke about it the day we met but there’s been no indication since then…although I should have known that he wouldn’t display any of the usual signs.”

“And are you…erm…attracted to…?”

“Oh, yes,” Georgia said with more enthusiasm than John was strictly comfortable with. “I mean, he’s very sexy the way he stalks around the flat with his dressing gown swinging out behind him, boiling over with emotion although he thinks he successfully represses his emotions. He says he’s terrible about feelings but he’s constantly experiencing and thinking and feeling. A very fascinating man.”

“He is,” John said simply.

“What do I do?” Georgia asked, looking at John with a sort of frightened confusion.

“Well,” John said and stopped there. “If you return his feelings then…I mean it wouldn’t be an easy relationship and you would have to throw all your expectations of a normal relationship out the window. It might just be a passing fancy on his part.”

“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s what I was thinking. Do you think if I slept with him it would clarify things for him? You know like, just let him get it out of his system?”

John blinked rapidly, rubbing his hand across his mouth, completely blindsided by Georgia’s forthrightness. She almost sounded like Sherlock.

“Erm…” John began but Georgia cut him off.

“Sorry for making you uncomfortable,” she said but she didn’t look sorry, only thoughtful. “Everyone here is always uncomfortable with my bluntness. I suppose they think it’s because I’m an American but everyone there thought I was blunt, too.”

“Where are you from?” John asked, eager to change the subject but also curious about Georgia and what journey would have led her to Sherlock’s door.

“Texas,” she said with a sad smile.

“When did you move to London?”

“Oh, only about six months ago. I came here on a fellowship. Linguistics,” she said when she saw the question on his face. “But then I got here and...I didn’t want to leave. There’s not really anything for me in Texas. I have no family. My parents died when I was a teenager. I have an aunt on my mother’s side who I’m very close to but she encouraged me to stay here. So now I’m applying for a visa. And I guess that’s my story.”

“And how did you end up working for Sherlock? He never gave me the details. One day he asked me how to advertise for an assistant and the next thing I knew he said he’d found one.”

“Holmes didn’t so much hire me as sort of chivvy me into his flat and then made Mycroft work out all the details of my employment over the phone.”

They laughed.

“Why do you call him Holmes?” John asked.

Georgia looked down at her hands, a smile dancing just out of reach of her lips. “I felt he needed the distance.”

“Distance? I don’t understand.”

“There’s an intimacy in being on a first name basis with someone. Everyone calls him Sherlock, even people he doesn’t refer to by _their_ first name, as though Sherlock is all the name he needs. The Great Sherlock,” she said and laughed. “It’s good for him to be Holmes, for me to put that space between us that he doesn’t have with other people, a sort of safe space, I guess you could say. Every once in a while he asks me why I call him Holmes and tells me to call him Sherlock and I distract him with something else and he forgets what he asked and I keep calling him Holmes.”

“You’re good for him,” John said, pleased with her and hopeful for Sherlock. “You’ve got him figured out.”

“No, I don’t, you see,” she said with a sudden intensity, looking into John’s eyes earnestly. “I don’t have him figured out. Everyone thinks they have him figured out but they don’t. Not really. Sherlock doesn’t have _himself_ figured out. That’s what I meant about safe space. I wanted to be someone who didn’t reflect back my own idea of who Sherlock is _supposed_ to be. But obviously he’s taken that the wrong way. He thinks I don’t like him when really I was just trying to be in the background, a blank canvas of sorts. Not all the time, of course. I mean, we do interact like normal people. But when he’s in the zone I try to project that blank canvas, to sink into the background so that I can just absorb all the excess he has to burn off so that he can get to the information that matters. I take notes, obviously. I mean, I don’t just sit there looking like a mannequin.”

“I can see how frustrated he must be not to have you marveling at his brilliance every time he looks at you,” John said wryly.

“Oh, I marvel. I just don’t look like I’m marveling,” she said, chuckling. There was a pause before she continued. “Well, I suppose I should call a cab and stop somewhere for condoms in case he decides he wants to have sex.”

John choked in equal parts mortification and laughter. “Erm, yes, right. I’ll call one for you.”

~*~

The buzz of Sherlock’s mobile startled him. He snatched it up and when he saw it was Georgia, his heart picked up its pace, much to his irritation.

**GL: Can I come over?**

**SH: Why?**

**GL: To talk?**

**SH: I hate talking.**

**GL: You love talking. You hate listening.**

“I hate _you_ ,” Sherlock muttered at the phone.

**SH: Please clarify whether I will be talking or listening.**

**GL: Listening.**

**SH: No.**

**GL: Too bad. I’m already downstairs.**

Only two seconds later he heard the door downstairs slam shut and Georgia’s tread on the stairs. She came in without knocking.

He sat in his chair in his dressing gown and tried to look disinterested.

Georgia stood just inside the door, the usual messenger bag slung over her shoulder. “I don’t like talking around things so I’m just going to come out and say it,” she said, clutching at her messenger bag.

Sherlock was delighted to see she was nervous. _Finally!_

“Please do,” he said and gave her his best withering glare.

“If I understood you earlier, you’re sexually attracted to me and you were unclear as to whether I returned those feelings. Well, I do find you sexually attractive. So if you want to have sex with me then, here I am.”

And she spread her palms in that way that he thought of as distinctly _Georgia_.

“You don’t even like me,” Sherlock scoffed.

“I like you very much,” she said and took a few steps into the room before stopping.

“Then why do you always look bored?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward in anticipation despite his desire to look totally uninvested in anything she had to say.

“Yes, well," she said and looked away. "You can be a little...manic. Brilliant, yes. Genius. Breathtaking." Her voice had taken on a softer quality, almost a whisper. "You want unfiltered approval, though. If anyone argues with you, you bite their head off and make them feel like shit at the same time. It doesn't bother _me_ because I'm not afraid of you. But I'm not going to project the person you _want_ to be back at you. And if you won't accept the way _I_ see you then..." she spread her hands. "...I thought the best thing would be to project nothing. To be blank."

“If I wanted  _blank_ I could just talk to the bloody chair!” Sherlock shouted, propelling himself up and out of his chair and halfway across the sitting room before he even realized it.

“Well, then,” Georgia said and stopped. “So. Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Of _course_ I want to have sex with you!” he said.

“Will I still have a job afterwards?”

“Of _course_ you'll still have a job afterwards! Why would you not have a bloody job?”

“Okay, then. Where’s the bedroom?”

Sherlock stood in the middle of his sitting room completely and utterly flabbergasted.

“That’s it? You’re just going to come in here and say, ‘let’s have sex’ and then go to the bedroom and then…?”

“And then just have sex?” she asked, with her lovely sly smile that existed mostly in her eyes.

He hesitated only a second, two at the most, before he surged forward and captured her face in his hands and kissed her. Georgia’s messenger bag landed on the floor with a thud and her mouth opened eagerly against his and then she made a little noise in the back of her throat as though she was trying to strangle another more enthusiastic noise that he desperately wanted to hear and he remembered the first day he had met her when she had laid her head back in John’s chair, exposing the whole long column of her throat and her voice had come out strangled because of the way her neck was lying and Sherlock had imagined Georgia above him, her head thrown back in the exact same way. And on the heel of all of _that_ , Sherlock wanted to know what other things might get Georgia to make that little noise in the back of her throat that he would now always think of as distinctly _Georgia_.

Her hands snaked inside his dressing gown, and she dug her fingers into the skin at his waist, almost painfully and he gasped before pressing her against the wall. He felt like something wild was unspooling inside him. He seemed to have lost control of his hands because they wandered over her shoulders, down her sides, around to the small of her back and then gripped her--

“You have a rather large rear end for a woman of your size,” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully against her lips.

She pulled back to look at him and her smile was so bright it made Sherlock’s heart stutter. “Oh, Holmes, you say the sweetest things,” she said, but she didn’t sound offended, which was good because Sherlock had only just realized that what he had said was insulting.

“Oh. Well. I like it. It’s very… _squeezy_ ,” he said, and she tilted her head back against the wall and laughed and there was her beautiful throat. He found his lips pressed against the skin just under her jaw and then his tongue and his teeth were working their way along her jaw and up to her ear and he tasted the salt on her skin and he loved it, absolutely loved it, that he could actually taste Georgia, and her little sighs were making it hard to think.

“The bedroom,” she said, gasping.

Sherlock nodded, dazed, suddenly aware of his arousal; he blushed and Georgia noticed and he rolled his eyes at the look on her face and she laughed, all lit up from within and Sherlock was gratified that she was finally, _finally_ smiling at him the way she smiled at everyone else. But then she smiled again and he realized that, no, this wasn't the way she smiled at everyone else. This was the way she smiled at only _him._

In the dark of his bedroom, he was suddenly unsure, realizing how utterly unprepared he was for having sex with someone. They needed condoms and lubricant and toys…weren’t you supposed to have toys? It was polite to make sure the woman had an orgasm before he got on with his. The last woman he had been with was Irene and she had toys but Irene had been nothing like Georgia. Both of them were strong in their way but where Irene was elegant and highly refined and untouchable, figuratively speaking, Georgia was casual and rough-edged and touchable, very literally touchable…he wanted to touch her naked skin, all of it, to slide his fingertips from her temple to her collarbone--she really did have a lovely collarbone--down over her breasts and stomach and then…and then…and then Georgia turned to him in the dark and pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt and he put his hands over hers and said, guiltily, “I don’t have condoms.”

She smiled knowingly.

_That’s what it is!_ he realized suddenly, about her smile. It wasn’t sly; it was _knowing_.

“I have condoms,” she said.

“When did you get condoms?” he asked suspiciously, feeling the unwelcome bite of jealousy when he thought about who she may have been prepared to sleep with other than him.

“On the way here,” she said, as though it was obvious and he sighed in relief to know that it _was_ only him.

She left him in the dark of his bedroom and he sat on the bed and took off his shoes and his socks and then began on the rest of his clothes.

Then Georgia was back waving a little box coyly in his direction and he drew her towards the bed or maybe he pushed her, he wasn’t exactly sure but somehow they ended up on the bed and she was straddling his thighs and he was trying to get her clothes off and she was laughing at him and calling him _Holmes_ but it sounded like _slow down_. She was naked from the waist up, her skin luminous against the shadows of the dark room. He fumbled at the button of her jeans and cursed. She laughed and scooted off of him awkwardly and stripped herself down and then she was in his lap again, completely naked.

“Georgia,” he sighed against the soft skin of her stomach.

He let her have all the control and she used it well, all of her movements efficient but relaxed and despite the matter of fact way she went about divesting them of their clothes and handling the business with the condom, or maybe because of all that, he found himself impatient and he forgot how to be gentle and considerate and roughly he pulled her onto him. A moan rose up out of him in the same way that Georgia’s bubbling laughter rose up out of her. She sighed with pleasure and tilted her head back and that… _that_ was what he had imagined the day he met her.

They moved together slowly and then his thumb found the right place--silly, really, to worry about forgetting the importance of that when it was almost the best part--and Georgia responded beautifully, their rhythm together quickening, her thigh flexing sweetly under his palm. Sherlock watched her with equal parts amazement and coy arrogance and her eyes wanted to close but he said _no, Georgia, let me see your eyes_ and her fingers curled into the skin of his chest, her thigh flexed then held and she bent forward like she had been punched in the stomach and let out a very unladylike grunt that made him want to laugh. She said _Holmes_ but it sounded like _Sherlock_ and it was tender and sexy at the same time.

He surged up against her and pressed his face against her breasts; the stubble on his cheeks scraped across her skin. He shuddered underneath her and said _Georgia_ but it sounded like _thank you_.

They were breathing hard, panting really, their skin slick with sweat. Georgia’s hair stuck to her cheeks and Sherlock took her face in his hands and brought her forehead down against his and he wondered if this was how normal people felt when they were happy. If so, it was extraordinary; he really could see the appeal.

~*~


	2. You're Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgia turns out not to be who she claims to be.

**SH: Go get milk.**

**GL: No.**

**SH: You can’t say no. I’m your employer!**

**GL: Yet here I am, saying no.**

“How kind of you to finally grace me with your presence, Mycroft,” Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. “Please tell me you have something interesting for me.”

“How is your assistant?” Mycroft asked, coming to stand near the chair where Sherlock was sitting.

**SH: But we**

Sherlock paused in the middle of the text he was typing out for Georgia. Something in Mycroft’s voice, a shrewdness Mycroft only used when he knew something about Sherlock that Sherlock wished he didn’t, caught his attention. He finished the text before answering.

**SH: But we need milk.**

“Fine. Great. Knows how to use the Internet and has a strong stomach,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. He was bored. There was no point in pretending that nothing had happened between him and Georgia. Clearly Mycroft had managed to install another monitoring device or devices in the flat after Sherlock’s last purge. Mycroft knew and Sherlock didn’t care that he knew. Much.

“Sherlock, you do understand that you can’t have a romantic relationship with an employee.”

**GL: *We* don’t need anything. You need milk. Get it on your way back. And be quick. I want tea.**

“Are we discussing my personal life?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up at Mycroft. “Because if I had known that we would be discussing my personal life, I wouldn’t have bothered coming.” Sherlock stood up and slipped his phone into his trousers with more force than he meant to. “Are we done here? Good.”

He started to leave but Mycroft stepped in front of him, putting a hand on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock batted his hand away and took a step back. God, he hated it when people touched him. Well. Except Georgia. But only then when he initiated it.

“Your personal life is not your own. You have an image to project. There are always people waiting in the wings to snap your picture or dig up information on you, information I spend a good deal of time making disappear.”

“I don’t give a damn about my image!” Sherlock snarled. So much for feigning indifference.

“Clearly,” Mycroft drawled. “However, the fact remains that you cannot have a romantic relationship with an employee. It looks bad. Either fire her or end the relationship.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, aghast. “I can’t _fire_ her! She’s all alone in a foreign country with very few contacts. She’ll…starve or…something equally hideous.”

“I find it interesting that your first instinct was to maintain the romantic relationship at the expense of the professional one,” Mycroft said with a smirk. “And, at any rate, if you were worried she was going to starve to death, you shouldn’t have slept with her.”

“I hardly see how one follows the other,” Sherlock said disdainfully.

“Yes, that would be why you need me to keep you from becoming a public laughingstock. You have forty-eight hours to either fire her or end the romantic relationship or I will tell Mummy you’re sleeping with an American.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. They both knew he _would_ dare. Mycroft handed Sherlock a file that had been sitting on his desk. “Here’s her file. There are some interesting things in there that I think you should know. It might make the decision easier. Don’t worry, though. I’ve made it all disappear.”

“You disgust me,” Sherlock said, although his tone lacked venom. He wanted to ask _made all_ what _disappear_ but he didn’t. He took the file and left without another word.

~*~

In the back of the car Mycroft had sent to pick him up and take him home again, Sherlock forced himself _not_ to open Georgia’s file. The intelligence available to Mycroft, which was all of it, could make anyone look bad, sinister, undesirable. So he wasn’t going to read it.

Instead he brooded. He hated to admit that Mycroft was right, about his first reaction being to fire Georgia rather than stop sleeping with her, that is. After all, it was just sex and he had spent the last twenty plus years successfully avoiding that as much as possible. It wasn’t like he _cared_ for her or anything. Oh, he felt some mild affection for her in the same way he supposed one did for one’s pets.

She wasn’t even that pretty. She had nothing on Irene Adler, that was for certain. Women were always throwing themselves at him and, as John liked to joke, Sherlock was always throwing them back and at least half of them were more alluring than Georgia. Sherlock did not have a _type_ ; one couldn’t have a type if one avoided sexual entanglements consistently. But if he _did_ have a type it would most certainly not be the scruffy, poor, bookish American type.

He was confident Mycroft had scrounged up a respectable amount of dirt on Georgia and Sherlock chastised himself for not asking for the information from Mycroft to begin with. The only investigation Sherlock had done of Georgia was to sort through her messenger bag the day he had hired her when she had gone to the loo. She had only been gone three and a half minutes and that included washing her hands so he hadn’t had much time. There had been two books: one science fiction, one historical fiction. Fiction: boring. What was the purpose of fiction? A blank spiral notebook. Two pens. A passport showing stamps for the US, the UK and France. The personal information on the passport: Georgia Logan, five foot eight, etc., was nothing he didn’t already know. A five pound note. There was nothing really personal, unless one considered the books but those didn’t really tell him anything about Georgia he hadn’t already figured out in the first ten minutes. He’d gone through her phone but it was a pay as you go with a London area code. There had been no contacts in it the day they met. Her call logs had been deleted. The email app wasn’t set up so he couldn’t check her email address. Even after he’d hacked in to her call logs there were only three calls, all outgoing and all to takeaway restaurants. The only real thing of interest in her bag had been a pocketknife, a very good one, too. Sharp enough to cut a sheet of paper with only the tiniest amount of pressure.

She had seemed disturbingly _blank_ , as though she had no past, as though her life had only begun the moment he saw her sitting on the floor in the front hall. Oh, God, that’s the word she had used, wasn’t it? That night, the first time they had had sex to explain to him why she always just _sat_ quietly taking notes when he was on a case and his synapses were crackling and firing at a rate that would drive a lesser man mad. He had even used the word himself to describe her, to John. She had explained more later, about not wanting to disrupt his thought process or fan the flames. She had used the phrase “safe space” and Sherlock had laughed at that. How ridiculous! As though he needed a _safe space_. As though she was a threat. _Not me_ , she had said quietly as though she had read his mind. _You’re the threat_. He had scoffed. _I’m not a threat to you!_ Then a little quieter, she had answered _a threat to yourself_. He had kicked her out after that and not spoken to her for a few days which, in hindsight, had only made her more sure of her little deduction about him.

She wasn’t actually a blank, as though she had no personality or there was nothing about her that made her distinctly _Georgia_. There were a hundred small things about her that had turned her from a two dimensional person into somebody Sherlock actually wanted to spend time with. She laughed a lot. She laughed a lot at _him_ , even when he was being absolutely horrible about something, like someone’s tragic death. Lestrade had told him _my God, she’s like a female version of you_ and Sherlock had said _except not clever_ and Georgia had even laughed about _that_. She had annoying little habits like tying her hair up in a ponytail on the top of her head and then tucking the ends back into the band so that it made this little poofy thing that was completely unattractive. She wasted blank microscope slides by the dozens examining random things with his microscope no matter how many times he shouted at her to stop. At first he asked why every time; why did she want to examine a scraping of that stain or a strand of her hair or a strand of _his_ hair and she had said _because it’s fun_ as though that was a perfectly good reason for the abuse of scientific instruments. Just that morning, she had come into the flat carrying a rock--a _rock_ \--and when he had asked her what she planned to do with it, she had said she was going to examine it. He had asked _what for?_ and she had said _research_ and although he couldn’t argue with _that_ he didn’t see the point, unless the rock had been part of a crime scene.

She wore the same clothes all the time, like a uniform: jeans and a black knit shirt. When it rained she wore one of those hideous yellow raincoats and wellies instead of sneakers and didn’t always remember to take her wellies off before coming up to the flat, dripping water everywhere and leaving muddy boot prints no matter how many times he shouted at her for it. She always had a book with her, usually something tepid and mass consumed, that she read when she wasn’t annoying him or clomping through the flat or wasting his microscope slides or hogging his laptop to surf the Internet for increasingly bizarre and esoteric information or shagging him senseless.

Sherlock had followed her into the kitchen and watched her scrape a bit of the rock onto a blank slide with her pocketknife (which she closed carefully and tucked into her jeans pocket), add a drop of water and the square cover glass and slip it under the microscope. He had listened to her _hm_ and _oh_ and _that’s so cool_ for approximately ninety seconds before finding himself disgustingly jealous of a rock at which point he had come up behind her and grabbed her by the hips and pulled her up against him and kissed her neck and, well, it had all gone downhill after that. The slide she had made after _that,_ well…They were on their fourth box of condoms in only a month and that was even excluding the four days she had menstruated, during which he had received a truly decadent number of blowjobs.

All the while, Sherlock had become increasingly aware of the amount of time he was wasting being engaged in various sexual activities with Georgia as well as all the other little trivial things that ate up one’s time when one was romantically involved with someone. He had even, much to his lasting shame, bribed her with sex a few times in order to get things out of her she wouldn’t normally consent to do, like pick up milk or drop something off for Lestrade or do the washing up. She was always eager as soon as he made the offer: _oh, well, in that case_ she would say with her little coy smile she only used with him that made him want to do very dirty things to her in order to wipe the smile off of her face and replace it with something far more pornographic. And really, who was he kidding. He liked to come up with things for her to do that she normally wouldn’t consent to just so he could bribe her with sex. It was like a debauched version of the Ouroborus.

She was a distraction, a terrible, terrible distraction.

He opened her file and read.

~*~

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Sherlock said sarcastically, slamming into the flat. He tossed Georgia’s file onto his chair and then ripped off his suit jacket and threw it on top. He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. He was furious, absolutely _enraged_. He stalked towards her and to Georgia’s credit, she didn’t shrink back when he got right up in her face but only looked at a point over his shoulder with a stoicism that he found both impressive and infuriating, like she knew what was coming, like she had been expecting it and she would endure whatever he dished out because she deserved it.

“You lied to me,” he whispered, sneering, his lip curling back. He put both hands on the arms of her chair--no, not _her_ chair, _John’s_ chair--and leaned in even further, bodily pushing her back, his shoulders almost touching hers. She swallowed, which pleased him and upset him because she was scared, he could see that. Scared of him. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing was increasing. Her body was beginning to tremble with suppressed energy. She was ready to fight but she didn’t. She just stared at his shoulder, her chin held up, refusing to look at him but also refusing to look down.

 “You _lied_ to me!” Sherlock shouted and slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair and she flinched back and her eyes slid shut just for a second before opening again and they were shining, glimmering. Her eyes were the color of her hair, a golden reddish brown that had looked dark in the dim light of the front entry the day he met her but which he had since spent many wasted minutes trying to catalogue the color of. He pushed himself off of the chair and started pacing. He could almost _feel_ her sigh of relief at his not having him in her face anymore.

“You’re not here for a fellowship. You don’t even have a degree. _Sociolinguistics_. What a joke. I should have known you were running from something. In fact, I did know, or I suspected at least, but I ignored my gut because you were so good at making yourself seem harmless. Where did you get the money to come here? Your file says you were destitute, indigent. What did you live on when you got here? Your account was overdrawn! Well, until Mycroft gave you an obscenely large salary for being my assistant, especially considering you do very _little_ of importance to me.”

He turned to look at her and her face had gone from scared to blank. No, not blank. Empty. Flat. Georgia had disappeared somewhere deep inside of herself but he didn’t want that; he wanted her _here_ and _aware_ ; he wanted her to feel every ounce of his rage and vitriol.

He picked up her file from where he had tossed it and threw it at her, the papers fluttering down around her. The file itself had hit her in the eye and she flinched and made a noise almost like the ones she sometimes made in bed and Sherlock had to close his eyes and take a step back to stop from going to her. She brought her hand up to rub at her eye.

“Two arrests and one conviction for breaking and entering. Sentenced to a month in county jail,” he recited. “Two arrests and one conviction for selling drugs. Sentenced to community service. Arrested but not convicted for carrying drugs. Oh, but the best one, by far: arrested and _convicted_ of first degree murder, sentenced to fifteen years in a state penitentiary but fled the country before sentencing could be carried out.”

At that he turned to her and hoped that the blaze of his fury would set her on fire right there. He knew now what Mycroft had meant by _made it all disappear_. He had meant damage control. He always told Mycroft he didn’t care about his image and he didn’t, he _didn’t_ , but what would happen to his work if he was found to be cavorting with a woman who had been convicted of _murder_? No more consulting detective work for him. Endless days of tedium and darkness creeping in while he stewed in the whirlwind of his own mind. _I’m not a threat to you_ she had said, _you’re a threat to yourself_. What a lie. She had always been a threat to him.

“Did you plan it from the beginning? I’m sure you thought your prayers had been answered. Working for a detective would be the perfect cover. You are a liar, Georgia. Oh, wait, that’s not your real name, is it? Let’s see, Ginny Lynch, right? You are a liar and a _whore_ Ginny Lynch. If you hadn’t tricked me into bed--”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Stop,” she whispered but she may as well have shouted. “I may have lied to you about my past but I never lied to you about _us_.”

“There is no _us_ ,” Sherlock spat. “Get out.”

She stood up carefully, her movements tight and jerky like she was keeping all of her muscles tightly clenched and he thought of that morning when he had hoisted her up on the kitchen counter and she had bumped the back of her head on a cabinet and said _ow_ but it sounded like _oh, yes_ and she had wrapped her legs around his waist and when she came her breath had whispered across his cheek and her legs had squeezed his hips so tightly he had grunted. He had had to pull out because he wasn’t wearing a condom and spilled himself onto her knee. She had said _gross_ and then _oh, put a little bit on that slide there, I want to see it under the microscope_ and he had said _you’re the most revolting person I’ve ever met_ but he had laughed and gone to clean up. When he came back she was bent over the microscope, naked from the waist down, and there was still semen on her knee. She had been so distracted with her curiosity that she hadn’t even bothered to clean it off and put her clothes back on and he had thought, _my God, she’s absolutely perfect_.

But she wasn’t perfect. She was a lie and everything that had happened between them since the moment he had first heard her laugh in the front hall two months ago had been a lie, a farce, a _game_. A game he couldn’t win.

~*~

After she left, he put his face in his hands and screamed through his fingers, screamed out all his self-loathing and rage and grief and ripped up all the papers in her file, including the file itself. He stacked them all into a pile-- _a funeral pyre_ \--in the kitchen sink and struck match after match until it was all burning. Then he whirled around and saw all her little slides, including the disgusting one of his own semen, and he broke them in half with his hands, ignoring the cuts and the blood that dripped on the floor in increasingly shorter intervals until the table and the floor were littered with broken glass and smeared blood. He didn’t bother cleaning up; he slumped in his chair and wiped his hands on his trousers. They were expensive trousers. Mycroft would replace them. Mycroft did everything for him. Sherlock was the idiot brother, the disappointment between a genius turned government mastermind and a super genius turned supervillain. He was the _emotional_ one, the _sensitive_ one, the one who needed to be looked after by his big brother and my _God_ , hadn’t Georgia justified every lecture, every invasion of privacy, every bit of _damage control_ Mycroft had ever done on Sherlock’s behalf?

He picked up his phone and dialed Mycroft’s number.

“Get rid of her,” Sherlock said numbly as soon as he heard Mycroft pick up.

There was a pause before Mycroft replied. “My dear brother, I never thought I would have the pleasure of committing murder on your behalf but--”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock mumbled. He was exhausted. He felt like he could sleep for the rest of the day.

“I know what you meant,” Mycroft said, for once not condescending. That was even worse. It meant he felt _sorry_ for Sherlock. “I assume you want her arrested and extradited to America?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said and ended the phone call.

Then he rang John.

~*~

“You can’t have her extradited to America!” John said when Sherlock had explained the situation.

“I bloody well can,” Sherlock replied flatly. “She’s a convicted felon.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John said with exasperation. “Clearly she’s a convicted felon but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be rounded up by Mycroft’s goons and shipped off to prison because she hurt your feelings.”

Sherlock sat up in his chair, swelling with righteous indignation. “She did _not_ hurt my feelings! I don’t _have_ feelings!”

“Sherlock, I may not be as smart as you--.”

“Not unless I had a major head injury.”

“ _But_ , I am a good judge of character. Georgia--”

“Ginny.”

“ _Georgia_ is not someone who would commit murder without good reason.”

“There’s no good reason to commit murder, John.”

“There are many good reasons to commit murder, _Sherlock_ , if you recall. For example, to save a friend.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Touché,” he muttered.

“Did you even talk to her about it or did you just shout at her and throw things? Did you give her a chance to explain?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I’m not saying you have to take up with her again,” John said quietly. “But I think that if she ends up in prison and forever out of your reach, you will regret it very much, Sherlock.”

“Oh, do shut up, John,” Sherlock said and ended the phone call.

He rang Mycroft.

“I take it you’ve changed your mind,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t send her back. Just…do something with her so she stays out of trouble.”

“Oh, how very noble of you, brother mine. Would you like to speak to her?”

And then Sherlock heard Georgia’s voice in the background, perfectly clear as she said, “Mycroft, leave him alone.”

He didn’t know what was worse. That Mycroft and John could see into him so well or that Georgia was sticking up for him after all that he had said to her. _You’re a liar and a whore, Ginny Lynch_. _You’re a liar and a whore. You’re a whore. A whore. Whorewhorewhorewhorewhore._

Sherlock ended the phone call.

~*~

Sherlock had been lying in a nest of blankets on the couch staring at the wall for days it seemed when John banged into the flat after Mrs. Hudson.

“He’s just been lying there, you see, the poor dear,” she said in a hushed voice that was still easily heard in the still flat. “He had a falling out with that lovely assistant of his, you know, the American. I really thought she was the one, John. I tell you, they went at it all hours of the day and night--”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I think I can take it from here,” John said quickly and ushered Mrs. Hudson out the door saying _no, we don’t need any tea right now but thank you_.

John came and stood behind Sherlock. Sherlock could feel John’s pitying gaze burning into the back of his head and it made him want to rip John’s eyeballs out of his head.

“Sherlock,” John said gently. “Have you eaten today?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. There were far too many thoughts spinning around in his head. God, there were so many details that came together to form a picture and then broke apart, half a dozen or a dozen at a time, inconsequential things, every detail perfectly recalled in his mind’s eye. His brain was constantly being flushed with words, images, scents _the feel of Georgia’s breath on his cheek_. Delete, delete, delete. He’d tried to delete all of it, all of _her_ , every image and remembered touch, the way she said his name that was also her name for him _Holmes_ and all the ways in which it meant his name and meant other things. The way it was just an exhale from her lips when he was inside her. She was such a stupid, pointless, ordinary woman. She hadn’t even committed any _interesting_ crimes. And he was a stupid, pointless, ordinary man for ever thinking that putting his cock inside her meant anything other than the subjugation of his intellect by his base desires.

“What about yesterday?” John asked. “At least let me look at your hands.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t need food he needed ( _Georgia_ ) a case! He needed something for his brain to do other than torment him. He needed quiet. ( _Georgia makes it quiet_ ) He needed oblivion.

“You know we can’t let this go on, Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock turned himself over on the couch, his head spinning a little at the sudden movement, and glared at John.

“ _We_ don’t have to do anything, John, but _you_ can go away now. I don’t need your help or your pity. Thank you, goodbye, don’t let the sound of your brain distract you. Oh, wait, that’s right! Your brain is silent because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock turned back over and faced the wall and wished he could excise the sound of John sighing from his life. He wished he could excise all of them, all of these tedious little people who wanted to _care_ about him and _help_ him with their sad little boring lives.

Later, Sherlock was dragged out of sleep that wasn’t really sleep but more like a lack of consciousness to hear John talking quietly to someone on his mobile. His body hurt like he had been beaten by several very angry men with baseball bats. It hurt to open his eyes. They felt like they had been scorched. Someone had put razor blades in his lungs.

“…got here a few hours ago. He has some infected…” and then Sherlock was out again.

“…dangerously dehydrated…”

“…shouldn’t have given him the fucking file if…”

“…thirty-eight point five degrees, Mycroft, he…”

“…listened to….crackling in his lungs indicative of…”

~*~

_Holmes_ …he heard like a whisper in the back of his mind. He tried to wake up but it was like climbing out of a great big soft darkness into the painful light without knowing where any of the toeholds were. He kept slipping back into the darkness. It was very soft and comfy and quiet anyway. He decided to just stay there for now. But then he heard it again… _Holmes_ and then--

“Holmes,” Georgia said quietly, sounding disappointed. “Wake up.”

He felt her hand in his. He tried cracking open his eyes but they seemed to be glued shut. Finally they came unstuck and Georgia’s face came into focus. It was night outside the bedroom window and there was no light in his bedroom except what was coming from the kitchen. He could hear quiet voices on the other side of the flat.

There was something stuck in his hand, the one that Georgia was holding and he reached over to touch it but she smacked his hand out of the way.

“Don’t touch it. It’s your IV,” she said sharply.

“You look like shit,” he said, or tried to say but all that came out was a croak.

“You smell disgusting, Holmes. And you broke all my slides. That was really shitty.”

He tried to laugh but coughed instead and all the razor blades started whacking and slashing through his lungs. He couldn’t stop coughing and she brought a cup of water to his mouth with one of those little bendy straws and he took a sip and then collapsed back against the pillows, all of his energy spent.

“Sorry called you…whore,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, the words scraping out of his throat like they had claws.

“Shut up. You have pneumonia. And I don’t care about you calling me a whore because you were mad but I do care that you broke all my slides.”

“Was mad,” he responded.

“I told you to shut up. And why did you cut up my raincoat, Holmes? Wait, don’t answer that because I told you not to talk.”

“Horrid…color.”

“Hey, Dickson, get me some duct tape would you?” Georgia said to someone over her shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and he was about to say _you wouldn’t dare_ but she raised her eyebrows and there was that smile that was mostly only in her eyes and he swallowed his words. And then his eyes closed and he slept some more.

~*~

The next time he woke, Georgia was gone, and he realized she had just been a fever dream. Somehow that hurt worse than when he had read her file. He had wanted so badly to tell her he was sorry for calling her a whore; it seemed so very, very important and he had gotten his chance and she had even forgiven him for it, but it turned out she had never been there. He had never apologized to her. She had never forgiven him. Would _never_ now forgive him. He hadn’t condemned her to prison but he had condemned himself to live with his words. She absolutely had it coming, all of it, including breaking her slides and cutting up her raincoat (truly _horrid_ eye-bleeding color) but not being called a whore.

He sighed and then heard a man’s voice right outside his bedroom call out, “Sir? He’s awake,” and then Mycroft said, “Thank you, Dickson,” before slinking into Sherlock’s bedroom and staring down at him with haughty condescension.

“Always a flair for the melodramatic, little brother.” Mycroft swallowed and looked away momentarily and then he turned back and cleared his throat. “This one was a bit more melodramatic than most. You’ve been out for two weeks.”

On the heels of that shocking revelation, a doctor came bustling into the room and John came bustling in after and nodded at Sherlock, blinking quickly and Sherlock rolled his eyes at John for being so bloody sentimental.

“I think we can wait a bit longer, doctor,” Mycroft said quietly. “If he hasn’t died by this point I hardly think he will do now.”

The doctor said, “Yes, sir,” and then left. Mycroft leaned over and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder gently and then John came and cupped Sherlock’s cheek in a very motherly sort of way that would have made Sherlock smack him in the head if he had had enough energy to pick up his arms. His body felt so heavy and it hurt to breathe. It hurt to blink, really, and he was beginning to think he should go ahead and close his eyes again. There was nothing here to do and he was still so tired.

“Good to see you, mate,” John said, patting his cheek, and then he raised his eyebrows at something over Sherlock’s shoulder. By the time Sherlock had the energy to turn his head and investigate, John was gone.

Next to him on the bed, curled up on her side, sleeping, with Sherlock’s Belstaff thrown over her as a cover, wearing her pajamas with the purple pineapples on them _say it really quickly five times, Holmes, c’mon_ was Georgia Logan/Ginny Lynch. Sherlock’s eyes stung and he blinked them a few times. They wanted to close but he didn’t dare close his eyes, not yet, not until he had touched her to make sure she was real. When he tried to lift his hand, he realized she was clutching it against her chest. He squeezed her hand and closed his eyes and before he fell asleep he told himself to buy her as many ugly raincoats as she wanted.


	3. Georgia's Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock recuperates from pneumonia and begins to make peace with the fact that he's getting older. He makes the decision to help Ginny (AKA Georgia) but he can't just pretend nothing ever happened between them. He takes a visit to his mind palace to clarify his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's visit to his mind palace includes going over his relationship with Irene Adler, which I pulled out of my mind palace. It's not even close to canon. Also, the time he spends in "Georgia's Rooms" in his mind palace has a little bit of smut in it.

Sherlock spent the next week mostly sleeping. The doctor came in periodically to check his oxygen level, make him breathe into a peak flow meter, which always set off an excruciating coughing fit, and give him breathing treatments. John came by almost every day and there were nurses round the clock, provided by Mycroft of course, who hadn’t wanted him put in hospital. Mrs. Hudson checked on him periodically, too. Mycroft came by twice more that week; Sherlock mostly slept through the first visit and pretended to sleep through the second.

Sherlock desperately wanted to ask him what had happened to Georgia but he wasn’t going to. Sherlock suspected that she had only been there long enough to make sure he was going to live and then disappeared, with Mycroft’s help of course. The last thing he wanted was for Mycroft to verify it. If he asked, it would make it seem like he cared. Sherlock had apologized to her and that was the only obligation he had towards Georgia. Ginny. Whatever.

It was two weeks before Sherlock was well enough to get up and move around but he tired easily and taking a deep breath could still set off a coughing fit. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest sometimes. The doctor had prescribed a breathing medicine, the kind that came in a little inhaler that Sherlock refused to carry with him. The doctor told him it could be six months before he got all of his energy and “vitality” back.

“You’re not young anymore, you know,” Mycroft said to him one day when they went out for a walk and Sherlock had been short of breath after two blocks, even though they had crept along at the pace of an old woman.

“Younger than you,” Sherlock wheezed.

“Yes, but I take care of myself. I don’t lay around on my couch when I’m feeling sorry for myself refusing to eat so that my body is too run down to fight off infections.”

“You’re right about one thing, Mycroft. Not eating never has and never will be your problem,” Sherlock had said with a pointed look at Mycroft’s waist, still wheezing.

“Dickson,” Mycroft said over his shoulder. “Please give my brother his inhaler before he expires on the sidewalk. If you’re going to die, Sherlock, please be courteous enough to do it in your flat.”

“Yes, right, happy to oblige,” Sherlock gasped, taking the inhaler gratefully from Dickson.

Sherlock’s brain seemed slower since he had gotten ill. He hated it but being bored didn’t make him feel like he was going to suffocate in a black shroud of misery anymore. He watched crap telly with John. Tried to forget what Georgia’s skin felt like against his cheek. Took walks with Mrs. Hudson. Failed to forget what Georgia’s skin felt like against his cheek.

Gradually he got stronger and could stay awake longer and walk further without getting out of breath. He gained back the weight he had lost when he had been really ill and added five pounds, which made everyone inexplicably happy, as though his weight gain somehow added value to the general level of joy in their lives. His brain started firing up again and he found himself getting jumpy and pushing himself too hard only to end up sucking on his inhaler and falling asleep on the couch for hours at a time. He was forty-three years old and it felt like he had passed through an abyss that had truncated his youth and vaulted him into old age.

Fair or not, he saw Georgia as the catalyst for this enormous change, as though she had pushed him into the abyss. The question was whether the man he was now, with all his attendant strengths and weaknesses, was truly less desirable than the man he had been before. He felt like he had been…domesticated, something he could only have looked on with horror four months ago but which now seemed less horrible. Not ideal but not…the worst thing that could happen to him.

In a very twisted way that he couldn’t rationalize, he felt like he should thank her. As much as his near-death and long convalescence had changed him, she had already been changing him before that. He missed having a partner and he didn’t have to rationalize his feelings to know that she had been an adequate, capable partner, which was really the highest compliment he could bestow on someone who was, in every important way, merely average.

Then on a Thursday in late November, he picked up the phone and called Mycroft.

“Get me all of Georgia’s files. Court transcripts, witness testimonies, arrest records, everything you have,” he said when Mycroft answered the phone.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be sure?” Sherlock asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“I’ll bring it by this afternoon,” Mycroft said and Sherlock ended the call.

~*~

“Sherlock, I won’t withhold any of this information. But I would caution you to…prepare yourself. The facts are very damning,” Mycroft said that afternoon.

“Put it on the table,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded at the two men he had brought who carried in three cardboard file boxes and set them on the desk.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Georgia we know is accurately represented in these files,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock was startled into looking at his brother. Mycroft looked away as though he had only just then realized that he had allowed himself to be sentimental.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sherlock said acidly.

Mycroft left without saying goodbye.

~*~

Eighteen hours later, Sherlock called Mycroft and asked, “Where are the sealed files?”

“What sealed files?”

“For Georgia’s case. The sealed files for her juvenile offenses. Did you leave them out? I need those. If you don’t have them, get them and bring them to me.”

“That requires me to make an appeal to the Texas county juvenile court she was--”

“Just get it Mycroft and bring it to me as soon as you can.”

“Sherlock, have you thought through the consequences of going down this rabbit hole?” Mycroft asked.

“Careful, Mycroft, I’m beginning to think you actually care about me.”

“It’s not you I’m concerned for,” Mycroft snapped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I’ll send the files over tonight.”

Sherlock ended the call.

~*~

“Bring me Georgia in two hours,” Sherlock said when Mycroft picked up the phone thirty-six hours later.

“I’m sorry, _bring you Georgia_? What does that--”

“To my flat! Bring her to my flat in two hours, Mycroft!”

There was silence on Mycroft’s end.

“Please, Mycroft.”

“I will ask her if she is willing to speak to you. I make you no promises.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said and then ended the call.

~*~

Sherlock had gone through every file, every transcript, every witness report, every crime scene report, the evidence, the testimonies, the lawyer briefs. Every single damning piece of evidence. He lay on the couch for hours, letting his mind sift through it all, making all the necessary connections. He thought he knew why Georgia had committed murder. But there were so many things he needed to ask her. He now believed he could clear her name and he needed to know if he was right.

He lay down on his couch, put his hands together underneath his chin and closed his eyes. There was a journey he had to take before he could see Georgia again and that journey began with Irene Adler. Sherlock opened the door to his mind palace and walked down the stairs and into the room where Irene lived.

The relationship he had carried on in secret with Irene Adler had been very cut and dried. There were clearly delineated lines and, despite the term “submissive,” he was very much in control. Whenever he felt the _need_ , he had gotten in touch with her and set the date and time. After he presented himself at her residence, they would have tea and conversation. She had a sharp mind that he admired and he respected her. The fact that she had other clients never bothered him. This was her work just like he had his work and in that, they were well suited to each other. But it wasn’t a romance by any stretch of the imagination and sex was actually a small part of what went on between him and Irene once they retired to the bedroom. (It wasn’t _her_ bedroom, which was a private place where nobody went except Irene, simply _a_ bedroom.) He felt no shame or anxiety about it before or after.

Once he entered the bedroom, he turned his body over to her, relinquishing all control. Submissive was a word distasteful to his sense of self but it meant being blissfully _unthinking_ for an hour. There was a clearly delineated start and finish to these sessions. When he was in the bedroom, she was in control. When he left, he was back in control and they were equals, peers, colleagues even. He didn’t kiss her goodbye. (Nor did he pay her; apparently, he had free services for as long as he wanted them.) He got dressed, said goodbye and left until the next time he couldn’t repress his sexual desires anymore and his work began to suffer.

Sex, he discovered, was like a tightly packed suitcase. Once opened and the contents shuffled about a bit, it was difficult to lock back up again. He had not been quite as adept at repressing his desires when he was much younger but his razor sharp tongue had driven away most prospects. It became much easier to push it all down when there was no chance of going off with someone.

He had allowed his locks to be popped, so to speak, with Irene. At the time it had felt like an incredible weakness. Over time, he had come to appreciate it for what it could do for him. He didn’t waste precious time pushing the feelings down by reciting the periodic table forward and backward or giving in to the biological necessity of finishing himself off as quickly and efficiently as he could. He texted Irene and then it was done with for sometimes months at a time all in the space of a few hours. Neatly and cleanly.

In his mind palace, Sherlock stepped out of Irene’s room and shut the door and then turned the lock.

Then, he pushed aside all of the facts he knew about Georgia, including her real name and the story behind it, and followed the trail in his mind palace that led to the locked room that held everything he had known about Georgia _before_ he had read the file Mycroft had given him. Pure emotion had made him lock that room even against himself because he had not wanted to delete any of it, even though he told himself he ought to; despite all the evidence against her, he had let emotion rule him. He wanted to preserve the purity of the way he had experienced Georgia during those nine weeks she had been a daily part of his life and there was no good reason why; but he had done it anyway.

The first room was more impression than memory and he let himself linger there the longest. Many of his strongest impressions of Georgia involved sex. He had always disdainfully believed people were never their real selves during sex. You pretended to be the best version of yourself in order to get someone to have sex with you. Why would the act itself peel away any of the deception? But there had been no deception between them in their sexual relationship.

Georgia was open and willingly vulnerable when it came to sex. She let him open her up and take her apart and it doing so, earned his trust. He hadn’t considered before then that someone had to go first. Someone had to go first in making the decision to trust. She had less reason to trust than he did yet she had. Even more to her credit, she had put everything about their sexual relationship in his hands. She never presumed. She didn’t touch him first, not even casually. She was so careful with his personal space after that first night. How had she known?

That didn’t mean she couldn’t initiate sex. She was a master at The Look. Usually when there were other people around so that by the time they were back at the flat, he was nearly blind with desire. Sometimes the way she skirted around him, the fact that she _didn’t_ touch him, would light the match. He would feel her inches away, his skin uncomfortably alive, like electricity was arcing back and forth between their bodies. When he wanted to show her something in the microscope, she would wait for him to step away and then she would look and he would stare at her profile, at the way she had to cover her eyes around the eyepiece of the microscope to steady her eyes because otherwise her eyelashes would block the lens. She would be bent over from the waist, the line of her back and hips angling down to her thighs and legs. He would find himself breathing hard.

She was not immune to him, he knew. He could see it in her eyes or the careful way she held her body when she wanted desperately to touch him but was determined to respect his boundaries and he would say _Georgia come here_ and she would practically sag with relief, her hands and lips and body grasping and pressing and they would do it wherever they were at that moment. A bed was unnecessary for their needs.

It wasn’t always desperate and greedy and hungry. It was _usually_ like that but as he understood, it was normal for a couple to be rather more enthusiastic in the beginning and supposedly that tapered off with time. At the time, though, it felt like it would _never_ taper off. More worryingly, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to. Regardless, there were times when it was slower and gentler, what someone might term lovemaking rather than just sex, although Sherlock didn’t assign any meaning to those words.

They did experiments. Like, how long it took her to come if he went down on her versus if he used his fingers or if he was on top versus if she was on top. There was the series of five days during which they measured how much lubrication her body produced during certain times of days. God, he had petri dishes of Georgia in them still probably somewhere in his flat. They measured the amount of semen he produced three separate times of the day over three days. He took photos of her vulva during various states of arousal. He remembered telling her, impatiently, “Hurry up and come. And stop moving your legs, I can’t take pictures if I can’t see what I’m doing,” and she had laughed and laughed and ruined the experiment and he had tossed his phone on the floor and climbed on top of her, grinning, and said, “Oh, very well. I suppose I don’t mind finishing you off,” and she had smiled so brightly at him and he had murmured something filthy in her ear and she had shattered so beautifully underneath him, her chest flushed pink.

Their relationship was deplorably messy, literally sometimes. There wasn’t a day that went by that they didn’t engage in some kind of sexual activity, more than once usually. And yet his work had _not_ suffered. Almost immediately she had become his protégé, something neither had made a decision about or discussed. It simply _was_. It was easier to be satisfied with less intellectually challenging cases because they were learning experiences for Georgia. He took satisfaction in watching her talents of deduction grow over time. She was a fantastic student and he had thought then that it was because that had been her occupation for the previous eight years. Now he knew that she had never gone to college, had only barely graduated from high school. ( _remember only what you knew then._ ) She was five or six years younger than him which added something to their roles of teacher and student. She devoured everything he fed her, every bit of minutiae, never rolling her eyes at a lecture on the different types of pollen that could be found in dirt or mud that could allow him to determine where in the greater London area a suspect had been by a scraping taken from their shoe. There had been times he had opened the fridge to discover something unexpected that she had stuck in there, a dead frog once, or a collection of toes coaxed out of the assistant pathologist at Bart’s who was male, of course. She flirted her way into all kinds of goodies that she brought home for the two of them to play with. She soaked up his blog, _his_ blog, not the one John had written.

Finally, Sherlock let himself step out of the impressions of Georgia and into the memories.

**Room 1:**

Lestrade called them to a murder scene, one NSY didn’t even need help on but Sherlock had asked Lestrade to call them for particularly interesting ones so that Georgia could have a go.

The body of a man was found in the Marleybone Road with a head injury that shouldn’t have been fatal. No wallet or other identification. Empty pockets.

When they got there, Sherlock handed her a pair of vinyl gloves and said, “Georgia, tell me what you see. Remember, don’t just look, ob--”

“Yeah, yeah, observe,” she muttered, snapping on the vinyl gloves. She crouched down near the head of the body.

“He's an American,” she said.

“How the bloody hell do you know that?” Lestrade asked.

“His haircut. It’s called a ‘high and tight’. It’s most common in the US Marine Corps.”

“So, a military man,” Sherlock said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice. She was already one up on Lestrade.

“Wedding ring…” she tugged it off and sniffed it then tasted it “…silver rather than platinum or white gold. Scratched up quite a bit so I’d say married at least ten years. It was hard to pull off. The indentation around the skin suggests he never took it off, even after he had gained weight, presumably as he aged. Happy marriage,” she said softly, nodding, a secret smile on her lips.

“Sherlock, please tell me the two of you aren’t winding me up. There’s no way she can know that just from looking at his wedding ring.”

“Hush!” Sherlock told him rocking back and forth on his heels. “Just let her work.”

“He looks about forty-five or so. If he was married at least ten years, he would have married in his thirties. Why would he buy a ring that would have cost twenty dollars ten years ago? He must’ve been in financial trouble. But they got married anyway. Love meant more than money. It hasn't been replaced with anything more costly so love is still more important than money. Judging by the lack of jewelry, outside appearances aren’t important to him. But his ring was hard to jerk off. He’s never taken it off, not since he first put it on.” She looked up at Lestrade and Sherlock. “Happy marriage.”

“What else, Georgia?” Sherlock said, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Has to be retired from the USMC because if he was still in service he would have been wearing a watch. If you’re a soldier, everything is run on a schedule. If you’re late, you’re punished.” She ran her hands over his. “Soft hands. Give me your thingie, the magnifying thingie,” she asked Sherlock. She looked at a mark on his hand. “Paint.” Sniffed. “Hobby paint.”

“How did he die, Georgia?” Sherlock asked and held his breath.

“Stroke,” she said.

“There’s no way--” Lestrade began but Sherlock waved his hand at him and shushed him.

“Head injury knocked a clot loose,” she said, standing up and snapping off her gloves.

“But how did you--”

“Just a guess,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. “But it definitely wasn’t murder.”

“Look at that, Lestrade. She’s magnificent.” Then he strode over to Georgia and grabbed her by the shoulders. “God, you are so hot. I could take you right up against this wall.”

“There’s a dead man against this wall,” she replied.

Sherlock paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps that wall then,” he said.

Georgia bent forward, laughter spitting out of her mouth and Sherlock joined her after a moment.

“Oh, come on, you two, have some respect for the dead,” Lestrade said.

“Give him three days, Greg. If he rises from the dead, I’ll make sure Holmes apologizes for wanting to have wall sex in the same room as his corpse.”

That, of course, set Sherlock off again into a fit of giggling and, gasping for breath, he pointed at her and said to Lestrade, “She’s great, isn’t she? Isn’t she?”

 Greg said, “My God, she’s like a female version of you.”

 “Except not clever,” Sherlock said and set Georgia off again.

“Hey, sergeant, can you please escort these two clowns from the premises before they contaminate the crime scene with their…mutual adoration.”

They clutched each other, laughing, being stared at by all the scene of crime investigators but managed to shutter their giggles by the time they hailed a cab. In the cab, though, they broke into giggling fits again and again despite halfhearted efforts to stop but then laughter turned to desire. A glance at her face in profile led to his hand on her thigh and then his hand curved over it until it was between her thighs. She glared at him but leaned into his hand.

When the cab dropped them off, they kissed rabidly while stumbling up the stairs, groping each other, drunk on laughter and lust. They made it into the flat and undressed only enough to have access and fucked up against the door, the sex rough and dirty, spitting out filthy words to each other. Sherlock came more quickly than normal and then Georgia pushed him to the floor and rode him, with him still hard inside her taking her pleasure in less than a dozen strokes.

He felt her gathering and said, “Oh, there you go my clever girl,” and it pushed her over the edge.

“If he rises in three days!” Sherlock said five minutes later and it set them off again.

They spent the rest of the day and most of the night trying to work but their hands repeatedly found each other. Kisses on necks. Georgia straddling him in his chair, both of them having dispensed with the pretense of clothing by that point. In the hallway taking her from behind while she was on all fours.

Then in the bed finally and afterwards Sherlock murmured, “Stay the night?” and she said, “I can't,” with that note of finality in her voice that he knew meant she would brook no argument.

“Yeah, no, that’s…that’s fine. Totally understandable.”

**Room 2:**

She didn’t care about fashion and her clothes didn’t make a statement. She dressed for comfort and practicality. Jeans or cargo pants and a black knit shirt. Black, because black was practical. Went with everything and unlike, say, white it didn’t get dingy over time. It simply faded to grey, an equally practical color. Always one hundred percent cotton knit. It could be stretched and abused and still retain its shape after being washed and dried. Jeans because they were long-wearing. Cargo bottoms for the same reason but also because they had more pockets. She wore those when they went out on cases and didn’t want to haul her messenger bag.

Sometimes he hated it, having to get her trousers off all the way. Actually, he _always_ hated it, having to get her trousers off all the way. It would be so much easier, he thought, if she wore a skirt. Obviously, she couldn’t wear them all the time and certainly not when they were running around on cases. It would be so nice though, he thought, to be able to lift up her skirt and not have to actually undress her.

Sex with Georgia had become a heady, powerful thing. He knew her now, knew how to touch her, and where, so that she was at his mercy. He could take her apart with nothing but his tongue and not let up until she jerked away from him, oversensitive. It was like he was at the top of his game and _nobody_ could beat him at it. It was win after win after win.

So he bought her a dress. He had never given a woman a gift and hoped to God she wouldn’t think the dress was a gift. That might make things feel uncomfortably…labeled. He knew her measurements, had known them the first time he saw her naked, (although it was a lot of fun to do it with an actual measuring tape, too) and found a dress shop that did bespoke women’s clothing. He told them what he wanted: casual, black, fitted top, flared skirt, knee length, nothing sleeveless or strapless, _modest_ he said because despite her sexual appetite and willingness to be engaged in varied acts of debauchery with him she was, in personality, very modest.

When he went to pick it up, the saleswoman wrapped in up lovingly in tissue paper and then put it in a fancy box with the name of the shop in gold letters on the bottom right hand corner.

“Special occasion, sir?” she asked.

“What? No,” he said, looking impatiently out the front window. Georgia would be at the flat any minute now and he had hoped he could just throw it on the chair for her to open rather than having to actually present it to her.

“A gift for your wife, then, sir?” she asked.

“Oh, good God, no,” Sherlock said, aghast. “It’s for my assistant.”

“Right,” the woman said icily and when Sherlock noted the change of tone in her voice with confusion she pushed the box towards him and said, in a very clipped tone, “Good day, sir.”

Unfortunately, Georgia was already at the flat when he got there, which meant he had to present it to her like he was actually giving her a gift.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it in her direction.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He wiggled the box impatiently, without saying anything, feeling stupidly self-conscious.

She took it gently from his hand and then put it in her lap. “Now what do I do with it?”

“Honestly, Georgia, every time I think you may not be as stupid as everyone else in the world, you do something that proves me wrong. You _open_ it, Georgia.”

She opened it, far too slowly for his comfort, looking up at him every few seconds in a way that made him want to pace to the other end of the flat; but he refused to give in to that urge. He would sit here in his chair and suffer through all the discomfort that was his punishment for doing something so idiotic in the first place.

When she pushed back the tissue paper and pulled out the dress, the look on her face washed away all the embarrassment he had been forced to endure. She looked up at him with a smile playing on her lips and cocked an eyebrow at him and he knew she had guessed exactly why he had bought her a dress.

Even better was when she shucked out of all her clothes, including her bra and knickers, and slipped the dress on her naked body.

“There’s a zipper, in the back,” she said, turning around. Sherlock was ashamed to admit he was already aroused. He pulled the zipper up, loving the way she shivered when he kissed the skin right above the top of the dress underneath her hair. He stepped back.

“Now I’ll have to buy some lipstick,” she said when she had turned around.

It was a perfect fit, absolutely perfect.

“No, that dress would look terrible in lipstick,” he said and she laughed. He could pick her out of a crowd by her laugh, even if everyone in the crowd was also laughing.

“Is this an experiment?” she asked, smirking coyly.

“Isn’t everything?” he replied, also smirking coyly.

He had understood, in a scientific way, the purpose of flirting but of course the practical experience, for him at least, was pointless and boring as he was never trying to get off with anyone. But even after you had gotten off with someone, the flirting was still just as thrilling, more so even because it was already established that you would, of course, have sex with the person with whom you were flirting. So flirting became more like _foreplay_ , something Sherlock had become increasingly fascinated by.

Before Georgia, he believed foreplay was restricted to the physical actions needed to arouse both partners so as to make actual penetrative sex possible: touching, kissing, oral sex, etc. But with Georgia, _everything_ was foreplay, even when he was shouting at her, sometimes _especially_ when he was shouting at her, if he was honest with himself. They didn’t fight because she never took his anger to heart. She didn’t apologize. She knew when to bugger off if he was in a particularly black mood.

After she had twirled around in the dress and he rolled his eyes, she took his hands and put them on her hips. He put one arm around her waist, holding her to him before sliding his other hand down to her thigh. He clutched at the fabric tightly in his hands pulling it up inch by terribly delicious inch while he watched her face. Then he slipped that hand between her legs, nudging them apart with a tap to the insides of her thighs. She set her bare feet wider apart and he cupped her between the legs and then used that hand to bring her and the whole time his growing erection bumped against the back of his hand as he drew the orgasm out of her slowly, like taffy, watching her face as she got closer and closer, his palm growing slippery beneath her, his mind cataloguing all the data. If this then that equations piling up inside his mind palace. His eyes devoured every sigh and gasp, every strip of flushed skin, every motion her mouth and lips made. He watched her pupils shrink and grow, her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks before he told her to open her eyes again.

“If this is an experiment, then what’s your hypothesis?” she asked.

“I’m testing to see if it ever gets boring watching your face when you come.”

Then she came, falling against him, her hands gripping his arms with incredible strength for a woman, hard enough to leave bruises on his skin.

“What’s your conclusion?” she asked when she had finally settled, sagging against him.

“Terribly tedious. I don’t think I can bear to endure it again,” he said.

She laughed, her laughter more felt than heard. She pressed her cheek against his and then put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Do you want to fuck me, Holmes?”

“Oh, God, yes,” he said, and hefted her up on the chair and then turned around and said, “Come on. I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”

She didn’t hesitate and jumped onto his back, eliciting an _oomph_ out of him.

“My God, Georgia, have you gained weight? It must be your ass. I’m telling you, it’s gigantic. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it to--”

She kicked him in the thigh with her heel and said, “Giddyup!”

“Once again, you bring me to an all new low,” he muttered but carried her through the kitchen and into the hall and then into the bedroom where he turned around and unceremoniously dumped her on the bed. He was undoing his trousers as he kneeled on the bed, moving between her legs and he hadn’t even bothered to take his pants off before he was inside her, the skirt of her dress puddled around her waist.

“Giddyup,” he said and cocked his eyebrow.

**Room 3:**

**JW: Why don’t you and Georgia come over for dinner on Saturday?**

**SH: Why?**

**JW: When you’re dating someone, it’s nice to take her out once in a while.**

**SH: We’re not dating.**

**JW: You’re sleeping together.**

**SH: She sleeps at her own place.**

**JW: You’re having SEX with her.**

**SH: Oh. That. Let me ask her.**

**SH: She said she would love to have dinner on Saturday.**

**JW: I’m glad you decided to come.**

**SH: I decided not to come.**

**JW: Sherlock. Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.**

**SH: Fine. We’ll be there. What time?**

Georgia wore her dress on Saturday with her canvas sneakers. When they were in the cab, he kept glancing at her sidelong. Her spine was straight and her shoulders pulled back, her legs crossed at the ankle and she looked suspiciously like a _lady_. Finally she turned her face very slowly his way and mouthed the word _no_.

“What do you mean, _no_?” he asked.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, having already turned back to face the front.

“You can’t possibly. Your mind is simply not complex enough.”

Her shoulders shook briefly with silent laughter.

“If you say so,” she said.

He hated it when she did that because it always made him try to draw her back into the argument or discussion. Usually an argument. Even if there was no argument or discussion. And then he had to make one up so he could draw her back into it. She was fierce when she had to defend her hypotheses but otherwise she approached most conflict with equanimity. If he had to describe Georgia in one word it would be _unflappable._

“So what did you think I was thinking?” he finally asked, sighing with displeasure at once again being outwaited.

“You were thinking how easy it would be to slide your hand up my skirt. It’s a twenty minute drive to John’s, minimum. You could get a lot done under my skirt in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t be absurd. That was not what I was thinking. Not even close.”

“If you say so,” she said, spreading her palms.

Sherlock stayed silent because, really, how infuriating was it that he was not only enslaved by the desire she elicited in him but transparent in that desire?

“The answer’s still no,” she said five minutes later.

“I don’t know what on earth you think I’m thinking but I assure you that I am not, in fact, thinking it. And anyway, I never said you were right.”

“Am I?” she asked, looking at him from underneath her lashes.

He didn’t answer her until they got to John’s. Exiting the cab, he took her wrist and pulled her back before she would have walked down the sidewalk.

“You were right,” he said.

“If you hadn’t argued with me, I might have said yes,” she said and then stepped down the walk to John’s front door while he stood on the curb with his mouth partially open.


	4. The Case Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees Ginny for the first time since he was sick. It's almost been three months. Mycroft has smartened her up and given her a job and she seems like a stranger to Sherlock. He tells her what he's gathered from the files in his usual thoughtless, machine gun way and it brings up bad memories for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is discussion of past child abuse and rape but there are no explicit details.

Sherlock left the door to the flat open, as it had often been before Georgia had come into his life. After their first night together it was, of course, kept closed. Anyone could walk in and catch them _in flagrante delicto_. That part of his life, though, was over. He would never take Georgia to another crime scene and watch her work, while he stood and watched her, lit up with pride and desire. He would never again flip up the skirt of her dress as she bent over the microscope. He wouldn’t shout at her for forgetting to leave her wellies on the shelf outside the flat door. She wouldn’t leave body parts in his fridge. He wouldn’t tell her to go get milk and be told no. She wouldn’t be fascinated by the forty-three types of ash catalogued on his blog. He wouldn’t feel her looking at him while he read the paper, knowing she wanted to touch him but respecting his space until he said _Georgia, come here_.

Nobody would ever call him Holmes, when it meant anything other than his name.

After he was done with her case, she would go back to America, her name cleared and her prison sentence commuted into something they could all live with or Mycroft would help her disappear here in the UK or in America or possibly another country altogether.

Solving her case was his way of saying _thank you_ and _I forgive you_ and _goodbye_.

In his bedroom, he pulled Georgia’s dress out of the closet, still in the bag from the cleaners and took it into the kitchen. For a moment longer than he was comfortable with, he stared at it through the plastic. He had already taken all the feelings he had for her, everything but his interest in the case, and packed it away into Georgia’s rooms in his mind palace and then he had packed away the rooms themselves and taken them deep down into the basement. And then he had locked that door and the one after it and he had hidden the key where even he could not find it. He laid the dress across the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

When one of Mycroft’s goons deposited Ginny into Sherlock’s sitting room, he was ready for her. She wasn’t dressed in her usual clothes. She was wearing a button down blouse, a pink that should have clashed with her hair but didn’t and a calf length navy wool skirt that hugged her curves yet still managed to be modest. Her coat was bright red wool, lined with white silk, hardly appropriate for a woman on the run. A patterned scarf was tucked around her neck; she wore her scarf the same way he did: folded in half and then the ends tucked through the fold. He couldn’t remember if she had always done that. But, of course, the last time she had been a daily part of his life, the fall had only just begun. Now it was a month from Christmas. Her shoes were black patent with a square one inch heel and a little buckle over the top of her foot.

“I see Anthea has taken you shopping,” Sherlock said dryly. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his legs crossed. All of Ginny’s files had been put back into their boxes and were stacked neatly in front of one of the front windows.

Ginny said nothing, didn’t even look at him. The goon helped her out of her coat and took her scarf, laying them over his arm

“Thank you, Dickson,” Ginny said.

“Miss Logan,” Dickson said and nodded to her before turning around and walking downstairs.

Sherlock heard the front door open and close and he went to the window and twitched aside the curtain. The goon had taken up a position on the steps outside the front door that made it clear to everyone that a Very Important Person was somewhere in the building. Ginny was probably the only escaped felon of No Importance Whatsoever who was being not only protected but clearly also _coddled_ by the British government.

Ginny stood in the doorway looking elegant and mature. Her stillness, something that he could even sense when she was in motion, this aspect of her that she had always exhibited, now made her seem so unapproachable, so aristocratic, so…untouchable. She looked ravishing. He longed to see her the way she had been, when his attraction to her hadn’t been based on her body at all (her chosen uniform then had been terribly unflattering) but her mind and her personality and her appetite for any knowledge he could throw at her. He regretted, now, the time they had spent engaged in sexual activities. He could have taught her so much more if they had had more time. He could have sent her out into the world so much more prepared to excel.

“Sit there,” he said pointing at John’s chair ( _The Chair_ ).

She stepped lightly across the floor and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle, just as she always had. She sat ramrod straight, her hands loose in her lap. She didn’t fidget, or sigh, or let her eyes bounce around the flat. He realized now that she had learnt to be very still, very contained, to keep herself buried deep inside her mind, all out of self-preservation. Sherlock sat down in his own chair and crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair.

Finally she lifted her eyes and looked at him. “You look much better,” she said but didn’t smile.

“You look terrible. Much older. Have you lost weight?” he replied.

That was the kind of thing that would normally have made her laugh or at least smile. But she didn’t smile and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder why he had _ever_ thought she _turned off the light_ around him before because it was very clear to him now that the unsmiling woman sitting in front of him, was not a version of Ginny he had ever met.

“I’m surprised. Clearly, Mycroft is taking very good care of you,” he said into the silence. “You even have your own goon.”

Ginny looked down at her hands, which lay loosely in her lap.

“Do you prefer to be called Ginny or Georgia?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.

“Oh, well, I find that very hard to believe.” Sherlock tilted his head back and forth as he said, “Ginny. Georgia. Ginny Georgia. I know! I’ll call you GeeGee!”

Her eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s and he almost smiled at the martial glint in her eye.

“I’ll call you Ginny then, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Because that’s your name.”

She nodded her head both acknowledging her name and accepting his use of it.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s talk about your name, then. Georgia isn’t just a random name you picked, is it? Georgia was your sister. Ginny is short for Virginia. Two sisters, Virginia and Georgia. Ginny and Georgia. You took your sister’s name which means she doesn’t need it anymore which means she’s dead. Feel free to stop me at any point if I get something wrong.”

He could feel all of the information he had gathered and filtered and connected wanting to pour out of him, the high of knowing he was right and that he had seen it and nobody else had. That he had figured her out, finally. Her story was a sad one, although he admired the way she had not let herself be pulled down and dragged along by her past. She had come into his life a confident woman; now he understood how she had managed to stand firm in the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes.

He had wanted to be gentle with her, to approach this interview with her as he would with a friend but, despite his efforts in his mind palace late that morning, he couldn’t stop himself from his rapid-fire delivery, nor the resentment that must’ve been oozing off of him. He wasn’t angry with her, not even a little bit, not anymore. But he was still angry, in general. Angry that it had worked out this way, angry that she was sitting across from him and looking like a stranger.

“She was beaten to death when she was fifteen years old. On your passport it says you were born in 1981 but you weren’t because you were the younger sister by four years. You’re thirty-four, not thirty-eight. There are a few details I’m unclear on but we’ll get to those later.

“You came here to present your case to me, didn’t you? Well, actually, to present your aunt’s case to me. You told John that you didn’t have anyone in America, except an aunt who you were close to but who had _encouraged you to stay here_. In 1998, your aunt, along with your mother and father, were convicted of the abuse and murder of your sister, as well as child endangerment, child maltreatment, including physical, psychological and sexual abuse, and child trafficking. There were four victims, four girls, one of whom was you. You were eleven years old when your sister was killed. The other two girls, like your sister, were in their teens. One, Jessica Sanchez, was fourteen the other, Ashley Rooney, was the same age as your sister. Your parents made money selling them to men with a preference for younger women, _much_ younger women. Several of these men were very high powered and to ensure their anonymity, your parents were very clever. They had a code. A phone call was made, a code issued and one of the girls would be dropped off at a certain place, blindfolded. The men who raped them wore masks, didn’t they?

“The interesting thing is that your aunt _confessed_ to all of this, which your parents had strictly denied, even though she hadn’t lived in the same area, which would have made it impossible for her to be involved. But your mother and your aunt were identical twins. Your aunt convinced the court that she had traded off with your mother and that the girls had never known it was her and not your mother. In part, it was your aunt’s testimony that swayed the jury into finding the three of them guilty on all counts, although your parents swore that your aunt was lying.

“And she was, wasn’t she? When she discovered the abuse the four of you were enduring, she tried to alert the authorities but nobody would listen to her because your parents were protected by very powerful men, weren’t they? One of the men got your sister pregnant and when he found out he beat her to death. That was when your aunt realized she hadn’t done enough. She was consumed with guilt. She convinced Jessica and Ashley to confess and you as well and all four of you went to the police and told your stories. The three of you were examined by doctors but there were no signs of rape in the two older girls. The records of _your_ medical examinations were sealed by the juvenile court before the start of the trial. You weren’t allowed on the stand. You were considered too young to provide testimony. Children make such difficult witnesses. Hard to parse the truth when children’s memories are mostly impressions. Regardless, your parents and aunt were convicted and sentenced to twenty years to life. The actual sentence for each count of child maltreatment and neglect added up to a hundred and sixty years but who’s counting.

“Except three years ago, Jessica Sanchez recanted her testimony. She said your aunt had coerced the three of you to go to the police and accuse the Lynches of child abuse because she had a vendetta against your parents. Jessica Sanchez was paid quite a bit of money for this. Her bank statements show that three thousand dollars was deposited into her account from an IRA every month beginning in February of 2015. Her most recent bank statement shows she’s still receiving the money. That’s quite a bit of money. Almost one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. One can hardly blame her, though. She learnt at a young age that she was the only person she could rely on. She married and had two small children at the time. They were struggling financially. One can almost forgive her for throwing the rest of you to the wind.

“In light of her recantation, your mother was granted a parole hearing. Your father had taken the blame for the murder of your sister largely because she was pregnant and because there were bruises that matched the size of his hands. Naturally, he couldn’t apply for parole until the year 2028. Your aunt, being the one who had perverted the course of justice, given false testimony, etc., was also not granted a parole hearing. She was eligible last year but denied parole based solely on Jessica Sanchez’s recantation.

“Your mother was released. Two years later, you shot her with an unregistered handgun. You were offered a plea bargain but your lawyer, who clearly had more intelligence than the rest of this court of farcical justice, advised against it. If you had accepted a plea bargain, then you would have forever lost the opportunity of a retrial. Of course, if your lawyer had been moderately more intelligent and done his research or, perhaps, not been a harried public defender, he would have applied to have your sealed files opened.

“You were raped, too, weren’t you, Ginny? You were eight the first time. When your sister found out, she tried to run away with you. Repeatedly. Each time you were deposited back with your parents, all of your claims of abuse brushed aside by your…progenitors…as the excuses of willfully disobedient daughters. After all, the two of you were perfectly healthy on the outside, weren’t you? The both of you did well in school. Your sister insisted on it, I’m sure. She wanted the best for the both of you and that included getting the most out of the education on offer as you could.

“According to your testimony, you were given some reprieve until the age of ten when you were once again passed on to a man with particular tastes. It lasted a little bit less than a year. After you and your aunt and the two other girls went to the police, you were put through a battery of medical tests but there was no evidence of rape because whatever damage was done had been done two years prior. By that point you were - ”

Ginny gasped quietly and Sherlock’s eyes flew to her. He had almost forgotten she was even in the room. He had always needed someone to talk to when he was in the zone like this. Not only did it help him clarify his thoughts but part of the high was having an appreciative audience, of lording it over the lesser mortals. He knew this about himself, had grown slightly ashamed of it as he had gotten older. When he was younger, before he met John, even for a year or so after he met John, he had felt it his due to out the secrets of all the criminals he had caught, had taken great satisfaction in seeing their faces break into shock at the things they had thought undiscoverable and the way their faces crumbled when they knew he had won.

But Ginny wasn’t a criminal. She had been convicted of a crime but she was not in any way a criminal and yet he was treating her like one, dredging up terrible memories of the past and spitting them at her like poisonous darts, each one hitting home with staggering precision.

Ginny was still sitting ramrod straight, her hands in her lap. But every muscle in her body was quivering with a dark energy and her face…oh, God, her face showed every bit of agony and pain that she was enduring under his need to be _right_ and to _show_ he was right. Heavy tears dripped from her eyes. The silk of her shirt was speckled with them. She was looking straight in front of her at nothing.

All of the locks Sherlock had put on the doors to Ginny’s rooms cracked open and he felt like he had been shot in the gut. He grunted and physically staggered back; when had he stood up?

“Virginia,” he said hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. He was surprised at the ease with which her real name rolled off his tongue. In that raw moment, he should have resorted to habit, yet he didn’t. At the back of Sherlock’s mind he realized something new was being born, here in this room, between them and he had been on the verge of killing this inchoate relationship before it could be brought fully into the world.

Her self-control was staggering; she cried silently, her body held mostly in check except for the barely visible tremor that moved through her muscles. But she had learnt to cry silently as a child out of self-preservation. She had learnt to disappear into herself. She had learnt to be as still as possible, not to invite even the least scrutiny. She had learnt to force her body to relax, even in the face of physical assault. The easy grace he had taken for granted was the result of years of abuse at the hands of the two people who were supposed to have protected her.

“Virginia,” he said again, moving towards her but stopping just short of touching her.

She looked up at him then and he saw the look in her eye, that vein of steel that she had brought out when she wasn’t going to allow him to knock her over or even bend her, the look in her eye she got when he knew that she would give no quarter.

“Mycroft told me to walk out the minute you said or did something to upset me,” she said, her voice clogged with tears. She sounded very matter-of-fact, in contrast to her face. “He said I didn’t need you, that he had put his best people on making me invisible. My papers are now under the name Virginia Logan and they aren’t forgeries because they’re genuine papers. A passport, an identification, even a history, all a fiction courtesy of the British government. I can go anywhere in the world, even back home, and pass unnoticed, even if I’m recognized.

“But Mycroft can’t get my aunt out of prison. And that was why I came here. So whatever it is you look so guilty about putting me through right now, it’s nothing. I know you can get her out. I believe in you. I trust you.”

Then she smiled and even if it was a bit tremulous, this smile, it still managed to push back the darkness he had not even known had settled over his flat the day he had sent her away. Sherlock turned away from her and rubbed a hand roughly over his mouth and jaw. His plan had been to help her but his arrogance had run away from him again. John had taught him how to care. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Mary and Rosie and Molly. Even Mycroft had been humanized a bit by John. He had the tendency to bring that out in people, the best parts of themselves, the parts that were selfless and real and human. Sherlock had committed murder and sentenced himself to exile and certain death for the sake of John and Mary, and for Rosie who had not even been a person yet. It hadn’t been a question of what he was willing to do for them, out of love.

The question, the ultimate question, was what _wouldn’t_ he do for them, out of love. They were _family_. Sacrifice was a given when you loved someone.

Virginia was not family. His only experience of caring about people who weren’t family involved Lestrade and Molly, but he wasn’t sexually attracted to either of them. He couldn’t term what he felt for Virginia as love. He had no idea what that felt like, to love someone, to be _in_ love with someone but he suspected one knew it when it happened. He respected and admired her. He enjoyed being around her. He liked having her in his flat. He liked having her with him at crime scenes. He liked going round with her to John’s for dinner or just an afternoon. He like watching her playing with Rosie or laughing with John. Once they had even gone out with Mycroft to have dinner and he and Mycroft had sparred like normal but Virginia had stolen the show by doing an impression of the both of them. Mycroft had laughed, actually _laughed_ , even if it was just a few chuckles. Of course he needed to be alone sometimes; didn’t everyone? Perhaps he needed it more than the average person. Well, he was pretty sure he needed it more than the average person. But the fact remained: he had not known how much he was still living in the dark of his own grief and pain until she had come in and turned on the light.

Ginny slipped a hand over his shoulder. It was the first time since their first night together that she had ever touched him without permission. He felt a flood of relief so strong he almost sagged. She was only four inches shorter than him and her shoes added another inch; her lips were at the same height as his neck. He could feel her breath, a little ragged as a result of crying, puff over the side of his throat. She tugged gently against his shoulder and he turned around, his eyes lowered. _Submissive before another woman_ , he thought ruefully. But Irene had never had this kind of power over him. There had been a careful distance between them, despite Irene’s attempts to turn it into something else.

Virginia was the only woman who had ever…he huffed a surprised laugh. He was forty-three years old and she was his first girlfriend. She brought her hand to his cheek, a ghost of a touch.

“Have I ever hugged you, Holmes?” she asked and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He raised his eyes. “No, I don’t believe you have. At least not when we weren’t…” he tipped his head to the side: _you know what I mean_.

Faint laughter breezed through her lips. Then she took his hands and pulled them around her back at her waist and slipped her own hands over his shoulders and behind his head and they tucked their faces in each other’s necks. They clung to each other as the world spun around them, as seasons came and went, as people were born and died, as the sun expanded and consumed the earth, as everything was burned away.

“I said goodbye to you,” he said what felt like hours later even though it had only been minutes. They were still wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Well, I didn’t,” she said with a lift of her eyebrows.

“Stay the night?” he whispered against her temple.

“Of course,” she whispered back and the last of his resolve crumbled.

~*~

Dickson was clearly hesitant to leave Ginny in Sherlock’s hands. He stared Sherlock down but Sherlock didn’t break his stare.

“Let me call Mr. Holmes and confirm,” Dickson said and Ginny nodded her head.

“I’ll call him,” Ginny said.

“I’m sorry, Miss Logan but Mr. Holmes was very insistent that I speak to him if there were any…changes in plans.” He glared at Sherlock again over Ginny’s head. Sherlock fought the urge to stick his tongue out at him. It felt a little like a pissing contest. Dickson clearly had a crush on Ginny. His protectiveness was not borne solely out of duty.

“I understand,” Ginny said, smiling at Dickson and then put her hand on his arm and Sherlock was surprised that Dickson didn’t combust at the touch. “My phone, please?”

Dickson fished it out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“I just have to call John,” Ginny said by way of explanation to Sherlock. She started to move into the kitchen but Sherlock caught her arm.

“Why do you need to call John?”

“That’s where I’m staying,” she said, clearly puzzled. “Didn’t they tell you…?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “They told me nothing.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said with a knowing smile, that one that he had originally thought of as sly.

“Fine. Yes. I didn’t ask,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Suddenly he saw Ginny freeze. He looked around her and saw what had stopped her. The dress he bought her, in its plastic bag, was hung over one of the kitchen chairs where he had put it.

“My dress,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said simply.

She turned around and looked at him like she was looking at him for the first time. It reminded him of the way she had looked at him in John’s kitchen when he had botched his plan to kiss her.

She rushed forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, stunning him. He stumbled backwards before catching them from falling. His eyes widened in surprise before slipping closed and he pulled her against him, pressing his lips back against hers. It was over almost as quickly as it had started.

“I love my dress,” she said by way of explanation.

“Clearly,” he said and chuckled.

Her face fell and his stomach with it and when she raised her eyes to his he saw another glimpse of the pain behind them.

“We’ll have to continue this tomorrow, you know,” she said, waving at the boxes of files on his desk.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll be nicer.”

She snorted. “You don’t do nice.”

“I’ll be _kinder_ ,” he said.

“You’ll be _thorough_ , no matter how much it hurts,” she answered. “Or I’ll hire another detective.”

It was his turn to snort. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Mycroft has offered to lend me one of his best men.”

“Mycroft has clearly lost his head where you are concerned.”

“He’s just being nice,” she said.

“Oh, I beg to differ. Mycroft is much more heartless than I am. I think he _likes_ you. I think he admires you. I think he’s fond of you.”

“Likes me how, exactly?” she asked, looking at him in horror.

“Oh, relax. I promise, Dickson and I are the only ones who want to get under your skirt.”

Ginny’s shoulders shook with laughter that was silent at first and then gradually it bubbled up out of her and he bathed in it.

“Don’t tease him, please,” she said, giggling. “He doesn’t know I know.”

“How did you find out?” he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

“Why, Holmes. I _deduced_ it.”

“Oh, my clever, clever girl,” he murmured. “I am et up with pride.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. She stepped back into the kitchen and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from eavesdropping, his hands in his pockets and his ear canted towards Georgia.

“Hey, it’s me…a little rough…no, it’s fine, he apologized…yeah, I know, right?...uh, no, actually I’m staying here tonight…I’m sure…” There was a long pause during which Sherlock could clearly hear John lecturing her. “…you know, right, that just because Rosie and I are girls, it doesn’t mean all the boys have to save us from the bad guys?...” She laughed. “…well, give her a kiss for me…Yes, I promise, John…yes… _yes_ …bye.”

When she turned around, Sherlock snapped his eyes towards the other side of the room.

“Don’t even pretend,” she said warningly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and refused to look at her, but a smile was playing on his lips. “My goodness, you’ve charmed everyone, haven’t you?” he asked, but there was no bite in his voice.

“Well, you know,” she said with a coy tilt of her head. “It’s hard to resist me.”

Sherlock was hit with a sudden image of an eight year old Virginia at the mercy of a man in a mask and bile rose in his throat.

“Holmes?” she asked, leaning towards him, her hand hovering over his arm.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing.”

She gripped his arm; he had forgotten how strong she was. She had left bruises on his skin a dozen times.

“Nothing has changed, Holmes,” she said, her glare so intense he felt himself wither a little bit under it. “Whatever you’ve read in those boxes, whatever you know, that was all true when I met you. It didn’t stop us then. Why would it stop us now?”

“I didn’t know about it then,” he hissed. “How can I touch you when…?”

“Then you don’t,” she said and dropped his arm. Why did he feel like he had failed some very important test?

“Miss Logan,” Dickson said, stepping into the room. “Mr. Holmes has given his permission - ” Sherlock snorted at that and Dickson glared at him again. Sherlock widened his eyes at Dickson in mock fear. “ - for you to stay tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Dickson,” Ginny said gently. “Can you collect a few things for me? Just enough for a few days. I’ll be here during that time.”

“Mr. Holmes didn’t - ”

“Mr. Holmes isn’t my father,” Ginny snapped and then she took a deep breath. “Sorry. I know he’s very...worried. But I’m fine. Look at me. Am I not fine?”

Sherlock and Dickson both looked at Ginny’s tear stained face and the wild strands of hair that had come loose from her smooth ponytail and when Ginny saw the look on their faces she sighed. “Okay, I’m not fine. But we knew this would be hard. Tell Mycroft I said to stop fussing.”

“Very good,” Dickson said tightly and, with one last glare at Sherlock, left.

“My God, I’m surprised I didn’t burn to death under the heat of his glare,” Sherlock said when he heard the front door slam shut. “Also, what have you done to my brother and best mate? I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“Yeah, two and a half months,” she said turning around but there was no accusation in her voice. She just sounded tired. “I went from knowing nobody and having nothing, terrified that you wouldn’t agree to see me, much less take my case, to having my own personal assistant and bodyguard. He’s given me a job, you know. Mycroft, that is. I’m not entirely sure what I do but I get paid very handsomely for it,” she said, grinning wryly. “Mycroft has me watching people and then I give a report on it. That’s what I’ve been doing for two and a half months while you were almost dying,” and this time there was accusation in her voice.

“It’s hardly my fault I caught pneumonia,” he said.

“It _is_ your fault you spent ten days laying on your couch refusing to eat and sleep and not letting John look at you. Do you have _any idea_ what you looked like when I saw you? You looked like you had just been let out of a death camp! We all sat there and listened to the heart monitor and held our breaths every time it stuttered. Your face was the color of ash. You were unconscious, Holmes. _Unconscious!_ _For - two - weeks!_ Mycroft sent the best doctors to treat you. They pumped you with antibiotics and sugar and saline and even after they had gotten the infection under control they _still_ weren’t sure you would live!”

“I’m - ”

“ _No_. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. You’re lucky John didn’t kill you. You’re lucky Mycroft didn’t have you killed. _Your life is not yours to throw away!_ ” she shouted and he stepped back, eyes wide.

Suddenly, she sucked in a ragged breath and he realized she was shaking.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I was - ”

“ _Sulking_ ,” she said venomously. “Because you couldn’t be bothered to listen to anyone but _yourself_.”

He lowered his head, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. Ginny had a deep voice for a woman; she spoke quietly most of the time and he had never seen her truly angry. It was fierce. He was a little bit scared of her.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “No. Don’t apologize. You won’t make this mistake again.”

He was tempted to say something like _how do you know I won’t make the same mistake again_ because it was in his nature to be contrary. But there were two people in the world who knew him better than he knew himself and one of them was standing in this room.

Suddenly, she turned around and left the sitting room. He watched her disappear into the kitchen and he waited for one and then two heartbeats before he followed her. She was sitting on his bed when he walked in, staring out of the window.

“Virginia,” he said, walking in front of her to sit on the other side. He looked at her face.

“I hope you know - ”

“I have missed you so much,” she murmured, without turning to face him. Then she stood up and started to take off her clothes.

“Virginia, you don’t have to sleep with me, you know, to _sleep_ with me,” he said and then grimaced. “I asked you to stay the night because I…well, I suppose I missed you as well. But not like that.”

Her eyes snapped to his face and he hastily amended his words. “I mean, _yes_ , like that! But we’re in the middle of…that is to say your case is more important than our…relationship, which is still…please don’t take your clothes off. I’m afraid I’m not as adept at repressing those…wait, just a minute! What are you doing?”

“T-shirt,” she said, pulling one out of his drawer.

“I didn’t say you could wear my clothes,” he pointed out.

“Don’t need your permission,” she said. Then, “Scoot over.”

“Isn’t it a little early for bed?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.

“No,” she said without cracking a smile. “Are you coming?”

He paused for as long as he could. “Oh, all right. But I’m only here for a cuddle,” he muttered.

“Oh, I bet you are,” she said and rolled her eyes.

He stripped down to his pants and climbed under the covers with her. She still fit very neatly in his arms and he settled his chin on the top of her head.

“Do you know how very hard it is not to have sex with you right now?” he asked after a few minutes.

She snorted. “Why are you trying not to have sex with me right now?” she asked.

“It feels wrong,” he said quietly.

She groaned. “I hate that. I hate being made to feel like I can’t possibly know my own mind. ‘Oh, she was sexually traumatized so she can’t possibly know the difference between rape and consensual sex!’ I thought you respected me, Holmes,” she said acidly.

He was silent for a moment. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “I was worried that my memory of you had been blurred by sentimentality and that perhaps you were not quite as strong or original or intelligent as I remembered you being.”

He turned over and tucked her underneath him. “I think I remember that if I kissed you here,” he said and put his lips against the base of her throat, “there was always a nice little reaction. Yes, that one. And if I slid my hand up here…oh, yes, very nice reaction, that one.”

“Please - stop - talking,” she said and tangled her hands in his hair.

“Silence _is_ golden,” he mumbled and bent his mouth to hers.


	5. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before they have to devote all of their time and energy to the case at hand, Sherlock and Ginny spend a quiet evening together and end up talking about their feelings. Sherlock tries to be romantic.

Very faintly, Sherlock heard a mobile ringing from the other end of the flat. He hadn’t been sleeping, had just been sitting up in bed, thinking about Ginny’s case. He looked at his watch. It was a little after seven. In the bed next to him, Ginny was asleep; she'd been that way for about two hours. He kept telling himself that in fifteen more minutes he would wake her up and then fifteen minutes came and he continued to let her sleep. For a minute he watched her, the barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest, the way the sheet had slipped down her shoulder to her waist, revealing her breasts.

Her body was so familiar to him and his superior skills of observation weren't the only reason why. They had spent so many hours naked together, lingering over each other, as though so long as they were naked, the world outside had stopped. Her hair looked dark in dim light but outside or when framed by a lamp, her hair was really sort of a dark ginger. She had pale freckles all over her cheeks but you couldn't see them unless you were standing in very good light. She had a large brown freckle on the inside of her left calf. Her bottom teeth were crooked and her right canine turned in a little. Her ears stuck out a bit at the top. Her hair was always frizzy in the front no matter how many times she smoothed it down and put it up in a queue.

He loved to look at her, when he could. Some days were just too busy. Some days he was just too moody. And then there were the days and days that turned into weeks that turned into months that he didn't see her at all. He wondered if she would be a stranger when she showed up that afternoon, and at first she had seemed that way. Then, just like that, the curtain had fallen away and there she was.

Being above her and inside her, their rhythm known and easily picked up again even after all that time, had been like…well, he hated to even think it - it truly was disgustingly sentimental - but it had been like she had come home to him, that she had only been away and now she was back. The moment she had moved into his arms he had keenly felt every day of their separation. He hadn’t known how much he missed her until he held her again.

He had unconsciously suppressed his desire for her. Granted, he had almost died from pneumonia and it had taken him six weeks before he could walk for more than a block without wheezing. Two and a half months after the start of his illness, he was still not quite himself, did not have the energy he used to have nor the motivation, although he was almost there. So for half of the time she had been gone, there was no need to repress anything. After he had started to feel better, though, he had been very careful to simply _not_ think about her.

But there had also been a distinct lack of desire. The person he desired was no longer in his reach or at least felt like she was no longer in his reach, so he hadn’t _wanted_. He had begun to think perhaps he had had a mid-life crisis or something about the aging process had released hormones he couldn’t control and Ginny just happened to be there when the dam broke, but he realized now that his lust, or desire, or whatever one wanted to call it, had been specific to her.

As soon as he had slid her underneath him, their bodies lined up, everything familiar but new again, he had wanted to devour her, to take her inside him in some way. He had bitten her gently at first, giving way to that metaphoric need to consume her, and when she had encouraged him by arching her back, he had bitten her harder. She had said _harder_ which had uncoiled a very terrible and dangerous thing inside him. He had felt ashamed at such a violent urge and voiced his concern she said _I feel the same way_.

Paying careful attention to the cadence of her breath so he didn't go too far, he pressed his lips and tongue against the bite and sucked on her skin, purposefully drawing blood to the surface, pulling back occasionally to watch it blossom, until her skin went from pink to red to purple to the color of unoxygenated blood. He left bruises under her jaw, near her ear and the base of her throat. Then he moved to her breast, her hip, the insides of both thighs, the back of one knee. She had given him his own trail of bruises. _Love bites_ , he thought; they would have to wear scarves for two weeks to hide it from everyone. The last thing he wanted, and could only contemplate with the deepest horror, was for everyone to witness such a private thing, an evidence of what he thought of as a very dark desire.

He had no emotional context, he realized. _Emotional context_. He heard Eurus’s voice and shuddered. She had been right about the need for emotional context, if her methods of proving it left something to be desired; something like compassion. She had asked about Ginny back when Ginny had still been Georgia and only his assistant, and Sherlock had been terrified at what evidence Eurus must have seen in his face or on his clothes or hands to know that someone new had entered his life. _A clerk_ , he had said, because not saying anything spoke louder than a lie. _A woman?_ Eurus asked. _A young man named George,_ he answered. _Oh_ , she said _, I thought for sure it was a woman._ Sherlock had asked _why?_ hoping to understand how she guessed these things, desperate to stay one step ahead to protect the people in his life as much as possible. _You looked happy_ , she said finally. He had written it off at the time but in hindsight, he was shocked that everyone seemed to know that Ginny made him happy before he had known.

From the other end of the flat, he heard a mobile start up ringing again and he pushed Eurus down as far as he could before getting out of bed and padding into the kitchen. He was naked; he hadn’t bothered to get dressed after he and Ginny had…shagged? Fucked? Had sex? He didn’t know how to label it. Fucking sounded too aggressive and it had been more intimate than shagging. _Had sex_ sounded so clinical.

The ringing mobile was Ginny’s. He picked it up and looked at the screen: John.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said. "Why are you ringing my girlfriend?"

"Erm…sorry, I…wait. Did you say your _girlfriend_?" John said.

"Did I? Slip of the tongue," Sherlock said.

"Nope. No, I don’t think it was, Sherlock. I mean, don't get me wrong, mate, I'm very chuffed. I honestly thought you would die a virgin."

"Oh, for God’s sake, John, I wasn't a virgin when I met her."

"No? Well. You could've fooled me."

"I don't even know how I'm supposed to take that," Sherlock said. "And I still don't understand why my sex life is so bloody interesting to everyone."

"Well, Sherlock, it’s because you don’t _have_ a sex life, at least you didn’t. It's not normal for a man to reach the age of forty-five - "

"Forty-three!"

" - forty-three without having had sex. Of course, people are curious. I have spent the last ten years dying of curiosity."

"Well, I wish you had done me the favor of _actually_ dying and spared me this conversation," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"But don't you see? This is fantastic!" John said, his voice rising in glee. "She's the perfect woman for you!"

"She's a convicted murderer."

"Not unusual in your line of work." John paused. Sherlock said nothing. "C'mon, Sherlock. When has there ever been a normal woman in your life?"

"My mother is a perfectly ordinary woman."

"Yes, and after she gave birth to you the words _ordinary_ and _woman_ were never again applicable to your life. Stop being stubborn. You wouldn't be sleeping with her if you didn't like her."

"Of course I like her. But…does it have to be labeled?"

"You're the one who labeled it!" John said, chuckling.

"A slip of the tongue!" Sherlock protested.

"Well, if you don't want her then Rosie and I will be quite pleased to keep playing happy families with her."

"No," Sherlock said, “I need her _here_ , with me."

He was thinking about the amount of work they had ahead of themselves for the case when he said it but then he started actually _thinking_ about the case.

When he closed his eyes, he could see bits of information, words and phrases and questions and images, floating around the three dimensional object that was the case itself, like a nucleus. There was one piece that kept tap-tap-tapping at his brain - _why_ bribe Jessica Sanchez to recant her testimony? Who would have gained anything from having Ginny's mother freed? Sherlock felt in his gut that the entire case hinged on that question. The money was coming from an IRA in Jessica's name but someone was depositing the money into the IRA or _had_ deposited the money into the IRA.

 _Right there_. That was where they had to start.

" - lock. _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock felt himself thrust out of his mind and into the real world, like walking through a portal. A very unpleasant one. The mind was a pure place; the physical world was…messy.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, using the precious few seconds while John answered to pull his current reality together.

"I said, does this mean you're asking her to move in?" John said.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, certain that he was going to be shouted at for not knowing what they were talking about.

"Ginny! Are you going to ask Ginny to move in with you?"

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. You've had one of your little impromptu mind palace vacations haven't you? You don't even know what the hell we're talking about. I said Rosie and I would be pleased to continue to play happy families with Ginny and you said 'no, she needs to be _here_ ,' so I asked if that meant you were going to ask her to move in with you."

"Well, not permanently. Just until we solve the case."

"Oh, that's bloody brilliant, that is. That's gonna go over well. Yeah, good luck with that."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, still not quite returned all the way to the real world.

"I was being sarcastic, Sherlock."

"Hm," Sherlock said, thinking about Ginny in his bed naked, which was tangled up in his mind with her case so that he was finding it very difficult to focus on what John was saying.

"Did you have a reason for ringing me, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I did. Actually I rang Ginny but you answered her phone. So if you could get her, please?"

"She's sleeping," Sherlock said. "At least she was when I answered the phone."

"Well, tell her Dickson just left with her things."

"Of course. Goodbye!"

~*~

In his bedroom, Ginny was still sleeping. He put her phone down on the dresser and then pulled on his trousers. As he was buttoning up his shirt, the buzzer sounded. Sherlock headed for the front door, doing up the rest of the buttons as he went. He took the stairs two at a time down to the front hall and opened the door only wide enough to grab Ginny's bag out of Dickson's left hand, but Dickson kept his grip on the handle.

"Let go," Sherlock said, frowning.

"Where's Ginny?" Dickson asked, glaring at Sherlock.

"Sleeping," Sherlock said, and tried pulling on the bag again. He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Let - go!"

"It's the middle of the day," Dickson said, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"She said you were smart," Sherlock said and then, through gritted teeth, "Let - _go_!"

"I want to see her," Dickson said.

Sherlock let go of the bag and slammed the door in Dickson's face before bounding back up the stairs, two steps at a time. He ignored the buzzer and strode into his bedroom.

"Ginny," he said loudly. When she didn't stir, he went around to her side of the bed and shook her shoulder. She smacked his hand.

"Ow!" he said, snatching his hand away. "Get up. Your goon is downstairs and he won't let me have your bag. He thinks I've tied you up and gagged you and am holding you prisoner, ostensibly for my perverted sexual urges."

"What?" she asked, sitting up.

The sheet fell to her waist and Sherlock saw the bruises he had given her, stark against her pale skin. The buzzer sounded again.

"We're going to have to do something about that," Sherlock said, pointing at her neck.

"About what?" she asked, leaping out of bed and scrambling to grab her clothes up off the floor.

"Your bruises," he said.

She pulled her skirt on without pulling on knickers and slipped her arms into her shirt without putting on a bra.

"Nope," Sherlock said, pointing at her chest.

"What?" she asked, looking down.

"That's silk. You can't put it on without a bra. It'll cling to your skin and show…everything," he said, waving his hand up and down in the general direction of her torso.

Ginny's phone began to ring and Sherlock snatched it up. The screen said "Dickson."

"Here," Sherlock said, thrusting the phone at her.

"Who is it?" she asked, glancing at the screen. "Oh, good," she said, pulling it out of his hand. Her shirt was still mostly unbuttoned.

"Dickson," she said.

It was probably possessiveness, which was a useless biological throwback but irresistible nonetheless, but Sherlock found himself sliding his hands inside Ginny's shirt. She smacked at his hand but he ignored her and skimmed his palms up her sides and spanned her ribcage with his hands so that his thumbs were resting under the upward swell of her breasts.

"Can you let Sherlock, uh, get my bag," she said, trying to wiggle backwards but there was nowhere for her to go; the backs of her knees hit the bed and she stumbled back but Sherlock caught her around the back with one arm. Ginny glared at him but he just cocked an eyebrow at her. She rolled her eyes until he lowered his head and pulled her nipple into his mouth. She sucked in a breath.

"Yeah! I'm fine. I'm good," she said into the phone, her voice sounding unchanged to anyone else's ears but Sherlock's. He circled her nipple with his tongue and she struggled to stay focused on the phone call.

"But, like I said, if you could, erm, let him taste - no, take! Yes, take my bag that would be helpful." Sherlock let go of her nipple with a popping sound and chuckled; Ginny glared at him. He heard Dickson's voice clearly through the phone: _Why can't you come down and get it?_

"I'm not dressed," Ginny said and grimaced, her eyes squeezing shut. _Oh. I beg your pardon. I'll, uh, of course, erm, leave it with him_

"Thank you Dickson," Ginny said and pulled the phone away from her ear before tossing it onto the bed without ending the call. Sherlock heard the chime of Dickson disconnecting the call right before he heard the buzzer go off right before Ginny pushed him into the dresser.

"Oomph," he grunted. She pushed her hand into the front of his trousers her eyes narrowed. "Payback, I assume?" he said through gritted teeth, trying to get her hand away from his penis but she was suddenly like an octopus: for every hand he managed to untuck from his trousers, there was another one to take its place. She had him pushed up against the dresser with her body. When he tried to move to one side or the other, she managed to pin him back into place with a well-placed shove with her hip and elbow.

Sherlock had enough of an erection at that point for her to move from fondling to stroking, which she did very slowly, enough to tease him and cause him to want to thrust up into her hand but he kept himself in check. She was still glaring at him but a smile danced just out of reach of her mouth. Sherlock groaned and the buzzer sounded again. Abruptly, Ginny stepped away from him and then she smiled wide enough to show her teeth, her cheeks dimpling.

"Better answer the door," she said and lifted her eyebrows at him before beginning to strip out of her clothes again.

"Very bad woman," he choked out.

He spent the walk through the flat and down the stairs getting his erection under control.

~*~

"Your bag, madam," Sherlock said, holding Ginny's case up for her to see when he walked into his bedroom. He set it on the floor near the wardrobe.

She was sitting up against the headboard cross-legged and, more notably, _naked_.

"How'd it go?" she asked, smirking.

"He was perfectly civil," Sherlock said with feigned indifference. "And, if you were curious, I was completely composed by the time I got down there."

"Hm," she said and got up.

She picked her bag up and set it in the chair. The bottom and top were leather but the sides were made out of a heavy-duty fabric in the same basic pattern as the wallpaper in the sitting room except red and white.

"Matches your coat," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" she asked, looking up at him with an eager smile. "I know it's ostentatious but I loved the color and that white silk lining? To die for. At that point I had given up on convincing Sativa that I couldn't spend that kind of money."

"What kind of money?" Sherlock asked.

Ginny stood up and closed her eyes and shuddered and then opened them. Sherlock gave her a puzzled look.

"After I left, Mycroft's people picked me up - it was Dickson, incidentally - and took me to his office. He said he knew you would - "

"Stop. Left? Left where?"

"When I left you," she said, frowning at him.

"You didn't leave _me_. I kicked you out of my flat," he pointed out.

She took a deep breath and blew it out her nose and then glowered at him.

"Right. That was probably not the best time to point that out," he said, grimacing.

"There was never a good time to point that out," she said, and gave him a sarcastic smile. "So, _anyway_ , Mycroft said he knew you didn't mean it, about having me extradited and that he'd better find me a place to stay and some decent clothes."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, thank God."

"Why are you two so obsessed with clothes? You're so sartorially judgmental."

"Well done!" Sherlock said, honestly impressed with her use of the adverb.

"Stop interrupting me," she said and wagged her finger at him like a disapproving headmistress. "He brought Sativa in and told her, 'Take her shopping for clothes. She looks like a vagabond. How much - "

"To be fair, you really did - "

"I'm never going to get through this story if you don't stop interrupting me."

"I've forgotten why you're telling me this story," Sherlock said, squinting his eyes in thought and then shook his head when he couldn't find the answer.

"Because you asked _what kind of money_!"

"Oh, right. I assumed your answer would involve less than ten words. I'm no longer interested in this conversation, especially if it involves Mycroft."

"He asked Sativa how much she thought she would need to put together a _basic wardrobe_ and Sativa looked me over and said, 'About ten thousand pounds, sir,' and Mycroft waved us away without even blinking."

"This is the answer to 'what kind of money'?"

"Yes."

"Well, thank God we got that out of the way. Get dressed. We have things to do," he said nodding at her case.

"Argh!" she said, scowling at him, "You're such a pain in the ass! Get out of my bedroom," she said and pointed her arm towards the door.

"This is _my_ bedroom," he said, drawing himself up indignantly.

"Get out of _your_ bedroom," she amended, still pointing her arm towards the door.

"I will leave you to it," he said. "But know that I'm not leaving because you told me to. As I pointed out this is _my_ bedroom. I'm leaving because I have - Stop! Don't push me! You can't push me out of my own room!"

"Yet here I am," she said, grunting, her hands planted squarely in the middle of Sherlock's back, "pushing - you - " Sherlock dug in his heels and she grunted in effort but his body was immovable.

Suddenly he turned and it set her off balance and he caught her and then he pulled her up against him. Then he bent his head and pressed his face into her neck, inhaling deeply, pulling the smell of Ginny deep into his lungs before he trailed his nose up the length of her neck. She shivered.

"You are an absolute waste of my time, not to mention mental and physical resources. All my hormones are going berserk and clouding my mind _and_ my judgement. I know better than this and _yet_ …here I am," he lamented and then kissed the bruise he'd left underneath her jaw and the one on her throat. She let out the tiniest of gasps.

"I thought we had things to do," she murmured.

"Hm? We can spare ten minutes," he said and pulled back from her so he could start unbuttoning his shirt.

"Ten minutes?" she scoffed. "It takes longer than that."

"Fifteen minutes, then," he said, grinning at her. He ripped off his shirt, tossed it at the chair and missed. He started on his trousers.

"I don't know," she said, putting her finger on her chin, pretending to think. "I'm not sure that's going to be adequate."

Sherlock kicked off his trousers before grabbing her around the waist. She squealed in laughter and he dumped her on the bed before climbing between her legs.

"You," he said and kissed her jaw. "Are." A kiss on the chin. "Ruining." A kiss on the other jaw. "My life." He gave her a mock glare.

She laughed and he pressed his mouth against hers, her lips smiling against his lips and he slipped his tongue between her teeth and she wrapped her hands around his neck. She reached down between them and guided him into place and he sighed in pleasure and she canted her hips up to meet him and then they were lost in each other's wordless encouragements and entangled limbs and teasing hands.

"I thought you hated me," she said suddenly, breathlessly.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, slowing his rhythm, trying to wrap his head around this interruption in the proceedings.

"After you kicked me out. I thought you hated me," she gasped.

"Mm," he said noncommittally. He _had_ hated her but he had also been in despair at losing her.

"What changed your mind?" she asked.

He stopped moving altogether and pulled his head back to look at her.

"Nothing changed my mind, Ginny," he said, one side of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "I never stopped…wanting you. This. I assumed you had gone once you knew I wasn't going to die. I would have gone, if we had changed places. I would have gone and never come back, not even if you were dying. I'm a heartless bastard. I don't know why you bother."

"You're a _beast_ in bed, that's why," she said.

Sherlock ducked his head, laughing, his shoulders quaking with it. "Don't you ever feel like I'm not worth it?" he asked.

"No."

She didn't even think about it, she just said _no_ like it should've been obvious to him.

"Why not?" he asked. He was still inside her, giving the whole conversation a charged feeling, like it meant far more than just the words themselves could express.

"The answer is very complicated," she said. "And I don't have anyone to compare you to," she said and cleared her throat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. She looked nervous and she was almost never nervous. She sucked in a deep breath and then spoke so quickly it was one long word: "You're-the-first-guy-I've-ever-slept-with-you-know-consensually-that-is."

Sherlock was rendered speechless. He'd been teased and interrogated mercilessly his entire adult life for avoiding romantic relationships and sex, and he had internalized the idea that he was an anomaly, a freak.

"You mean…you were a virgin?" he asked.

"Not technically but yes. In all the ways that matter, I was."

Sherlock climbed off of her and settled himself cross-legged on the bed. "Why were you embarrassed to tell me that?" he asked.

Ginny sat up and faced him, crossing her legs, too. "I'm not embarrassed because I was a virgin. I just don't want you to make a big deal out of it. I don't want you to have an overinflated sense of obligation."

"I thought you were going to say overinflated ego," he said.

"That, too," she added.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you're _my_ first, too. Not the first woman I've slept with, but you are the first woman I've had a normal relationship with."

"Our relationship is nowhere near normal," Ginny said.

"That's true," Sherlock agreed. "But it's more normal than the relationship I had with the last woman."

"You mean Irene Adler?"

"How did you - did John tell you about Irene Adler?" Sherlock asked, his face stinging with embarrassment.

"He told me he didn't know if you two had a relationship at all because it was all shrouded in your usual obfuscation."

"Did he use that exact word?" Sherlock asked.

"What, obfuscation? No, that was me."

"Just checking. For a man with his level of education, he has a very small vocabulary."

"Well, how many different words do you need for 'scalpel' and 'stat!'" Ginny giggled. "Seriously, though, he doesn't get enough credit for how smart he is, which is no wonder if he was always running around with you."

"Indeed," Sherlock beamed.

"But he's an amazing man. He's highly regarded as a physician. Other doctors are always coming to him for consulting. He's so friendly; everyone down at the surgery loves him, especially the girls at the front desk. Their hearts are always aflutter when he's near. He's a fantastic father. He's so devoted to Rosie. The two of them together…they have this perfect little world that I was lucky enough to be invited into. He's handsome and funny. Oh, my God, he's so funny! I've never met a kinder or more compassionate or - "

"Okay, I'm getting jealous," he said.

"Really?"

"Don't be absurd. I was joking. I don't care if anyone thinks I'm funny or sweet or whatever nonsense you were spouting."

"You're lying. You're totally jealous!" she said, nodding her head gleefully. She poked him in the shoulder. "You are _jealous_ of John Watson because _I_ said he was funny and handsome!"

"You're clearly under the influence of something that's affecting your ability to think logically."

"That's possible," Ginny said solemnly. "After all, I'm here with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ha. Ha."

"Tell me about Irene Adler," she said.

Sherlock sighed. "Let's just say it was quite a bit more businesslike than our relationship."

"Just out of curiosity, what _is_ our relationship?" she asked. "I'm not asking because I need you to tell me I'm special. But as I said, I have no point of reference. Our relationship doesn't look like the ones on TV. I know we like each other and obviously we enjoy having sex with each other - "

"Obviously, as we're both currently naked and have been for most of the day."

" - and we have the same interests and enjoy the same things, but that's just the same as any friend. Right? Well, other than the sex part. What makes it more than just friendship with sex? How do you know when you're in love with someone? What if one of us falls in love but the other one doesn't? How do you even know where to start?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Try an agony aunt column."

"Ha. Ha."

"This is what I _do_ know. The day I met you I went through your messenger bag when you went to the loo. There was nothing in there to give me any idea of who you were or where you had come from. Even an amateur could deduce you were hiding something by the lack of personal information in your bag. But I ignored the evidence.

"The day I read your file, after I kicked you out of my flat, in my head I kept going through your bag over and over again, seeing the evidence that you were hiding something over and over again. But I had ignored it. What was wrong with me that I would ignore something so obvious? Was there something wrong with me? Was my brain shriveling? Was I losing my touch?

"The evidence is everything. Don't just look, _observe_. Those are the basic tenets of my entire life. So on the day I met you, when I had the evidence right under my nose that you were hiding something - why did I ignore it?

"And then I got sick and my brain was so foggy; all I could remember was that I had to tell you I was sorry for what I'd said. For calling you a whore. It seemed so important. My unconscious brain recognized what my conscious brain could not because it was too wrapped up in my ego and my pride. There was nothing wrong with my powers of deduction. I was still just as sharp as ever the day I met you. I _chose_ to ignore the evidence. I saw it and I _chose_ to pretend I hadn't seen it.

"The question that I should have asked was this: what was it about _you_ that made me _choose_ to ignore the evidence? When I looked at it that way, it seemed obvious."

"Well?" she asked when he didn't immediately continue.

"Well, what?"

"What was it that seemed obvious?"

"I thought I already explained that," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I explained that."

"Nope. I'm pretty sure you didn't."

"I _said_ that the question that I should - "

" - what was it about me that made you ignore the evidence, yeah, I got that part. And then you said when you looked at it like that it was obvious, and I'm asking _what_ was obvious?"

"It was obvious that there was something about you that made me ignore the evidence!"

"But what was that 'something'?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock asked, exasperated.

Ginny huffed in laughter but then it began to grow until she was laughing so hard that the bed was shaking. She kept pointing her finger at him and gasping, "How should - how should - " and then she would start choking with laughter again.

"I have no idea what's so funny. Unless it's your _face_ ," Sherlock said petulantly.

"How should I know!" Ginny choked out and then bent forward in another spasm of laughter.

"You're really very tedious," Sherlock grumbled.

"So let me get this straight," Ginny said after she composed herself well enough to speak. "There's some indefinable quality about me that made you ignore the evidence but you don't know what that quality is?"

"I thought it was really romantic!" he said. " _Clearly_ I was wrong. I'll make sure I avoid any attempts at romantic gestures in the future."

"Oh, Holmes," she said, still shaking with laughter. "I would take this over flowers and a candlelit dinner _any_ day."

"Good, because the chances of _that_ are zero."


	6. The Case Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes over the night of the shooting with Ginny. He's also a little bit romantic. In a Sherlock type way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't completely edited this chapter for typos or errors but most of it has been. If it seems like it ends on an unfinished note, it's not accidental!
> 
> Also, just for clarification: You'll see Ginny's last name being written as either Lynch (her real last name) or Logan (her alias). Ginny (short for Virginia) Lynch introduced herself to Sherlock in chapter one as Georgia Logan. Georgia was the name of her murdered sister.
> 
> After Ginny was busted, Mycroft had official papers made for her in the name of Virginia Georgia Logan, a combination of her real name and alias, just to make things easier. Rosie still calls her Georgia (or johjuh) and Sherlock refers to Ginny's last name being Lynch even though she goes by Logan.
> 
> Sorry for the confusion! I didn't want to spend a lot of time within the story explaining her name but I can only imagine how confusing it is!!

"Get up," Sherlock said, shaking Ginny's shoulder before jumping nimbly back out of her reach so she couldn't smack him. "We have work to do."

Ginny hadn't gone to sleep until one in the morning but Sherlock had only slept for about three hours on the couch in the sitting room. It was seven in the morning and they couldn't wait any longer. Well, the truth was he didn't _want_ to wait any longer. The game was on and he needed Ginny in order to play.

Sherlock went back to the sitting room where he had spread all of the pertinent case files on the desk and floor. He heard the flush of the toilet in the loo and then five minutes later Ginny came out wearing her pajama pants with the purple pineapples and a camisole.

"I don't think you killed your mother, Ginny," he said, looking down at the sheet of paper in his hand. It was witness testimony at her trial from one of the police officers who was on hand when she was arrested at the scene of the crime. None of it made any sense, especially considering what he knew about Ginny's personality.

"I need coffee for this," Ginny mumbled.

"I'll take one as well," Sherlock said without looking up.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Holmes, but I shot her," Ginny said from the kitchen. "I remember it very clearly."

"It doesn't make sense," Sherlock murmured to himself.

"Here."

He took the coffee from Ginny's hand and set it on the desk. Ginny tucked one leg under her and folded the other up beside her. She had a dancer's flexibility; her knee was practically up by her ear. For Sherlock, whose knees creaked more often than not these days, her position made him wince. He was nine years older than her and, my God, what a difference nine years made.

"'We were closest to the scene when the nine one one call came in,'" Sherlock read from the sheet of paper in his hand. "And then the defense lawyer asks, "'Who made the nine one one call?'" He answers, 'It was an anonymous call. They heard shots fired.'"

Sherlock looked up at her. "You shot her on the side of the road, let's see…Farm to Market Road 3538 in Sealy, Texas - 'a dirt lot' - and the nearest neighbor was one and a half miles away?"

"Well, the high school was closer but it was Friday night."

"A gunshot wouldn't have been audible over that distance."

"Well, it's all open air out there. No trees to block the report of the gun. The prosecution did a demonstration that required everyone to go outside. Someone a mile away shot three blanks - which is how many times I shot her - and even in downtown Houston it was audible."

Sherlock sorted through the papers on the floor until he found the prosecution's examination of the same witness.

"The witness for the prosecution said it would be easily audible a mile away and could be audible up to five miles away. Hm," Sherlock said. "So you were off Interstate 10… _Inter_ state. So it would go through multiple states. How many states?"

"Well, it goes all the way from California to Florida. So, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Florida. Nine states."

"Two thousand miles, nine states, and all the major metropolises in those nine states. There would be articulated lorries going by every five minutes, even at night. What was the weather like that day?" he asked, mostly to himself and then dug through the piles of papers again.

"Take me through what you remember from that night," Sherlock said finally, looking up at Ginny.

"I know you want me to be innocent, for lack of a better word. But you're letting your feelings get in the way of - "

"No," he said, cutting her off sharply. "I am not. I never let feelings influence my decisions when I'm working on a case."

"You've let your feelings about me influence you before," she pointed out. "When you looked through my bag the day we met."

"That wasn't a _case_!" Sherlock said. "This is my life's work. I would never jeopardize my life's work because I was having sex with someone."

Ginny sat quietly for a moment, staring at her foot and then took a sip of her coffee.

"Why do you think it's worth pursuing?"

"Other than the obvious benefit that you would no longer be a convicted felon and your name would be cleared?"

"Yes, other than that."

Sherlock dropped his head for a minute in frustration before lifting it back up. "Because I think the chances of freeing your aunt are zero whilst you have a murder charge hanging over your head - not to mention escaping from police custody - as well as the fact that Jessica Sanchez recanted and cited your aunt as the instigator of her 'false testimony'.

"The next best thing for your aunt would be a second parole hearing since her parole hearing last year didn't go her way but even the chances of achieving that under these conditions are also zero. So, right now, the only thing I can do for your aunt is prove beyond a shadow of _my_ doubt that you killed your mother.

"If I follow the evidence and it tells me that you _did_ kill your mother, then there's nothing else I can do for her and the only thing I can do for you if that happens is what I've already been doing since I met you and that is teaching you everything I know and honing your skills. Mycroft will be able to protect your identity but you'll never go home again."

Ginny plucked at a string on the knee of her pajama pants.

"You're right."

"Wait - are you - really? You're not going to argue with me?" he asked.

"When have I ever argued with you?" she scoffed and when she saw the look on his face, amended with, "When your argument is logically sound, that is."

"That's my clever girl," he said and winked at her.

"You sound like you're praising a dog," she said.

"I will not rise to that bait, but thank you for offering. Now that we have wasted precious time making sure you _really believe_ that I'm the crack detective I've been telling you I am and not a lovesick idiot, maybe we can get on without any more interruptions, hm?"

"Alright, knock yourself out."

"How did you know where your mother was going to be?"

"She told me when she called me."

"What time did she call?"

"I'm not sure but it was sometime between one o'clock when I would've been back from lunch, and five o'clock when I got off of work."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"No," she said, looking contrite as though she had done something wrong and was being chastised for it. Sherlock filed that information away to take out later and look at.

"Where did you work?"

"I worked for a plumbing company. I was the secretary slash dispatcher."

"Did she call you on the company line or on your mobile?" Sherlock asked.

"On the company line."

"What time did you call her?"

"I didn't call her. I said _she_ called _me_ ," she said with a frown.

"The court transcripts say _you_ called _her_."

Ginny's eyes widened and Sherlock saw a tremor move through her body; he had just planted the first seed of doubt and it had shaken her badly, although she rushed to cover it quickly.

"Huh," she said. "I guess I must have forgotten."

"No, you didn't forget," Sherlock said, so satisfied at having been proven right once again. "You _remembered_."

"Okay, that explains nothing to me," she said, frowning.

Sherlock jumped up and started pacing the room like he always did when he was making or explaining connections.

"Memory is a slippery thing and there is only so much space in your brain for memories. This is your hard drive," he said, pointing to his head. "Like all hard drives there's only so much room to store things.

"Consider the idea of rote learning. We repeat things over and over again in order to memorize them, yes? The problem is you don't remember indefinitely because then your brain would hold onto everything you ever memorized and then you wouldn't be able to make new memories. There would be no more space! Instead, your brain holds onto what you use regularly. You might memorize the periodic table but if you never used that information then you would eventually forget it, unless you occasionally brushed up on it. You have to not only repeat things in order to plant the original memory, you have to repeat the repetition in order to keep saving it.

"Now consider lies. When you lie about something, your brain doesn't erase the truth and replace it with the lie. It creates two separate entries. But when you tell a lie, you also create a memory of having lied. So now instead of storing one megabyte of information - the memory of what happened - your brain is having to store three megabytes of information: the memory of the truth of what happened, the memory of the lie you told, and the memory of having lied.

 "Once again, it's all about repetition. If you stop using that information that your brain has so lovingly stored away for you then your brain decides for you what it's going to keep and what it's going to chuck. The really interesting thing is that your brain retains the memory of _having lied_ years after you lose the memory of what actually happened or the lie you passed off as the truth.

"Once you were arrested, you would have had to go over and over your story with the police. In court, they have to be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you committed murder so the detectives who were assigned to your case would have made sure that they had your confession locked up air tight. That means asking the same questions over and over again and then wording them _differently_ and asking them over and over again. That night you would have repeated fifteen or twenty times or more that _you called your mother_ and not the other way around.

"That night and for the length of your trial, you believed that you had called her and you kept repeating it so you kept believing it. Either you're lying now or you were lying then _or_ you didn't know you were lying then. If you had intentionally lied, then just now when I asked you how you knew where your mother was going to be you would have hesitated, because you would have remembered that you lied but maybe not which one was the lie and which one was the truth. But you didn't hesitate, not even a little."

"So you're saying that I lied that night but at the time I thought it was the truth."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

Ginny was staring at a spot on the floor somewhere between her chair and Sherlock's. The look on her face was one he hadn't seen many times in the time they had known each other. The confidence that made her look relaxed and knowing - like she had brought one in on the joke - was gone and in its place was a kind of embarrassed uncertainty.

"Ginny," he said gently. "Keep in mind that I already believe you were drugged either into believing you had murdered your mother or drugged into carrying it out. But there's nothing wrong with your mind itself. You have one of the sharpest minds I've ever seen."

She twisted her mouth to one side in a gesture that said _I'm glad one of us does_.

"And don’t try to think about what you said _then_. I want you to say whatever comes into your head without thinking about it. Otherwise you're going to drive yourself in circles."

"Okay."

"Was it a long phone call or a short one?"

"It would've had to have been short. I had twelve trucks to keep track of."

"Twelve trucks?"

"Yeah, the plumbers in the trucks. I was a dispatcher. I had to know where to send them and whether they had the time. I had twelve itineraries in front of me. If someone called and their toilet was plugged, or they had no running water because of a leak, I had try to fit those in first because they were more of an emergency than someone who's toilet needed a new flapper or something."

"You are speaking a foreign language to me right now. I'm sorry I asked," he said, raising his eyebrows. "What did she say when she called?"

"She said she wanted to see me, that she had some information about my sister's killer, that Georgia had told her who the father of her baby was and that she knew Georgia had told me as well."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?" Ginny asked, frowning.

"Did you know who killed her?"

"Not by face or name. We were blindfolded, remember? And they wore masks, or they were supposed to but some of them didn't. They wanted us to see their faces. The man who always requested Georgia, they had a sort of ongoing appointment. Every week. The girls were supposed to be on the Pill but Georgia stopped taking hers after I started having a monthly appointment with the man who took me when I was ten. She thought that if she got pregnant, they would have to take her to see a doctor, at least to get an abortion if nothing else, and then she could tell the doctor what was happening and at least he would have to look into it.

"We were always poor until my mother married Alan. He was a drug lord, not a big one, not one that registered high up with the DEA, but he specialized in date rape drugs, basically. Then he married my mother and she had these two little girls and he saw a goldmine. I was five at the time and Georgia was nine. By the time she was thirteen, he already had a long line of customers from his built-in client base."

A combination of acid and fear colored her voice, like an oil slick.

"How did your parents get hold of Ashley Rooney and Jessica Sanchez?"

"They were foster children that my parents managed to secure. I don't remember the details, honestly. I was only eight at the time."

"And that's how old you were the first time you were raped."

"Yes." She said it matter-of-factly, the same way she had answered the less atrocious questions. "One of my parents 'clients' offered ten thousand dollars for one appointment with me. An appointment was ninety minutes. For the older girls, 'clients' paid a thousand dollars an appointment. So I'm sure it was hard to pass up."

The note of disgust in her voice was almost imperceptible.

"How many of these appointments did each of you have every week?" he asked.

"Well, I only had the one appointment when I was eight. When I was ten, I only had one a month with the understanding that he could see me every two weeks when I turned eleven. The other girls usually had two appointments per week except the week they menstruated."

"My God," Sherlock said with a swallow of revulsion. "Six thousand dollars a week. A veritable gold mine," he said acidly, his lips curling in disgust.

"Yes," Ginny said and turned her face to the far window.

Maybe she had a point about him letting his feelings for her influence him on this case; he was being gentler with her than he would have been with another client. He had always had John, and then Ginny, to soften his brutal questioning methods.

He knew _how_ to soften his interrogations, he just didn't want to. He wanted the data to come in a rapid, uninterrupted stream, and all the irrelevant information left off so that he could process it as quickly as his faculties were capable of. But people always added on unnecessary information - emotional context.

He shuddered again, Eurus's voice seeping into his mind like rot.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked, bringing Sherlock back to his sitting room. Then, looking sly, "Do you need a moment to gather yourself?"

He could see she wanted to smile but was keeping herself from doing so. She was good at knowing when to gently tease him and when to outright mock him and, after she had elicited one of his black moods, learnt when _not_ to do either. Part of his attraction to her had been the innate understanding she had of when to push him and when to step back and never complained about having to do so, even after they started sleeping together. After he snapped at her or lobbed too many of his caustic insults her way, she would say, _I'm going to head home unless there's anything you want me to do._ It was brilliant, really, the way she didn't make it about his behavior; she never said, _Obviously, you're a fucking cock and are driving me away._

He had seen her do this with suspects, find a topic of conversation that the person enjoyed - model trains, small dogs, children, bomb making - and draw them out. She always sounded interested and engaged. And then she would throw a question out there still wearing the exact same facial expression, her body relaxed and unthreatening. Nine times out of ten, she got the answer out of them and the one she didn’t was usually the one nobody could get anything out of. She could talk to anyone and sound like she was fascinated by them; Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure she was faking it most of the time. She had a smile that lit up a room and people seemed to turn confessional when the full force of her smile was turned their way. It was a weapon, that smile. When he had read that first, thin file Mycroft had given him with its glancing sketch of her past, it had been easy to feel manipulated. He had seen her do it a dozen times with other people.

Sherlock had been so impressed by her skill, especially since he knew her true personality to be more like his than not; the _not_ part being _not_ arrogant and _not_ prone to brooding and _not_ self-entitled. _How do you know when to push and when to back off,_ he had asked her and she had just smiled and shrugged.

Now Sherlock knew the monstrous origin of many of Ginny's most valuable skills. When he looked back now, he saw how much of her cleverness was a result of what she had endured as a child. She was a master at threat assessment, at blending in, whether with a crowd or a small group; her superior observation skills; her ability to deduce something based on a paucity of evidence. It had been survival, hadn't it? He hated that she had gone through such a gruesomely painful experience but he wouldn't have traded her skills for anything in the world. He wouldn't have traded _her_ for anything in the world. It wasn't just her skills he admired; it was her personality as well.

He _liked_ her although it seemed like an inadequate way to explain something so multifaceted, something so difficult to parse that had entirely changed his life. If he had been forced to choose between her skills and their sexual relationship, he wouldn't hesitate to choose the former. That didn't mean he wouldn't suffer. It would be like going through detox. It was an addiction just as hard to give up as smoking. He used sex just like he used cigarettes or heroin or any of his other drug habits. When he was bored. When he was trying to think. When he was trying _not_ to think. When he was high from solving a case. When he wasn't making headway on a case. And then there was that bottomless well of sexual desire - at least it seemed bottomless - that she had uncovered in him, as though there were twenty-five years of repressed sexual desire fountaining out of him and he couldn't reach the end of it.

"You said earlier that if you can't prove I didn't kill my mother that I could never go home," Ginny said, dragging him back to his body and the mini world of the flat. "I'm not a sentimental person but when you said that, that I couldn't go home, I thought, 'but _this_ is my home.' I mean, not here in this flat, just here. In London. With John and Rosie and Mycroft and you."

"You put me last! And after Mycroft!" Sherlock said with mock indignation.

"Well, he is the smart one," she said with a devious grin.

 _No, Eurus is the smart one_ , Sherlock thought to himself and suppressed the jolt it always gave him when he thought about her.

"What if this _was_ your home?" Sherlock asked, the words spilling out of him as though they were hurrying to escape before he could close his mouth and trap them again. He imagined he could see them making a mad dash for her ears. Saw the moment they reached their target by the slight widening of her eyes.

"You mean, here," she said slowly, turning her head to the side slightly as though trying to see him from a different angle. "John's room?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said, grasping gratefully at the unintentional lifeline. "Exactly. John's room. That's absolutely what I meant. Yes. Yep." He popped his _p_ on the last word.

At first Ginny looked thoughtful, like she was considering it and then her mouth started to tremble a little and Sherlock had a few seconds of terrorizing certainty that she was going to cry until she started laughing, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle it.

Sherlock frowned and sat up, indignant. "What?" he asked.

"You're lying," she said, covering her mouth with both her hands, trying to stifle her glee.

"About what?" he asked, flattening his mouth in a thin line of disapproval.

"You didn't mean John's room. You were asking me to move in with _you_ ," she said and then laughter bubbled out of her mouth which she then quickly shut as though trapping her laughter the same way he had wanted to trap his words.

"Don’t be ridiculous," he said, trying to look serious but beginning to fail. "I don't even like having sex with you. I only do it so you'll do the washing up and make tea and get your little boyfriend down the morgue to give me body parts."

"Aw," she said. "You're so sweet."

He snorted. "I think that's only the second time someone has called me sweet. My mother was the first person to say it, when I was a baby. And then I learnt to talk and she took it back."

And then they were full on giggling at each other and the moment reminded Sherlock so much of his days with John. Except, of course, for the having sex part.

"I'm serious, you know," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"I know," she said and looked down at her lap. He could see the smile playing about her lips, those totally ordinary, unexceptional lips that made him happy in a dozen ways. When they smiled. When they laughed. When they kissed him. When they talked about the consistency of various stages of decomposing skin.

"Well?" he asked, when she just kept looking at her lap.

"Can I  think about it?" she asked, finally looking up and the way she grimaced when she said it made him realize that she didn't want to _hurt his feelings_ by saying no.

"You don't want to," he said finally, sitting back in his chair, his voice sounding deeper yet somehow softer. He said it without inflexion, not passing judgment, just verifying the truth.

She looked away, towards the front window near the couch and said, without looking at him, "You'll get bored or one day you'll be in a nasty mood and you'll turn on me and I won't have anywhere to go and I'll be nasty back and before you know it, we'll be screaming at each other. And then it would keep happening so that eventually our relationship would start going downhill and then we would break up and I'd have to move back in with John until I could find my own place and then we wouldn't be able to solve crimes together and it would be awkward for John having to balance the two of us."

They both sat with that for a few moments.

"I can't argue with your logic," Sherlock said finally. "Will you consider moving into John's room? Mrs. Hudson has tried a few times to rent it out but they never stay long. I always make sure to drive them out. And before you automatically say no, my reasons for asking aren't just so that I can have sex available round the clock. While your argument against moving in here with me is sound, it's also sound logic to say that if you were in the same building, we would be able to get more work done."

"Okay," she said.

He smiled briefly and then said, "Although you know, if you were to move in here with me and we got into fights all the time we would at least have lots of angry sex, which is very hot, and also makeup sex, which is also very hot."

"I'd rather just have regular sex, if you don't mind," she said, hiding her grin behind her hair.

"Which is also very hot," Sherlock added.

Suddenly Ginny narrowed her eye, studying him and then started slowly nodding her head as though she had come to the right conclusion, and said, "You want to have sex right now!"

Sherlock rolled his and then sighed like he was terribly put out. "Don't be absurd."

"I know when you're lying," she said with confidence.

"Fine," Sherlock said and slumped exaggeratedly in his chair. "You being all logical is an incredible turn on for me. Women are given over to making decisions based on emotion more than men, biological necessity and all that, but you are possibly the most _un_ sentimental woman I've ever met. You think with your neocortex and not your hypothalamus."

"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty."

"But we've got a lot of work to do," he said, not quite rolling his eyes but very close. "We'll have hot, hypothalamus drenched sex later, after we get our work done."

"Absolutely. Right now, however, I'm starving. I'm going to get something to eat. You want anything?" she asked, standing up from her chair and then immediately segueing into a ridiculously long stretching session. She was worse than a cat, especially since she had a tendency to let out these grunting groans, as though she was stretching her muscles to such extremes they were squeezing sounds out of her. And the whole thing was both annoying and sexy at the same time, which baffled him to no end.

Sherlock stood as well and stopped himself, if only barely, from taking the two steps it would require to stand in front of her and slip his hands up inside the thin material of her top and run his palms over and around her waist and her ribcage, to cup one (or both) of her breasts on the heel of his hand and rub the pad of his thumb over the tip of her nipple.

"When we're in physical proximity, do you find yourself imagining doing something sexual to me, even though we're clearly in the midst of an activity which it would be inadvisable to disrupt in order to carry out that sexual activity?"

The words were blurted out before he had given them much thought. He had long stopped being embarrassed by confessions of this sort but he had thought of asking this particular question a dozen times but always bitten the words back at the last moment.

"All the time. In fact, right now I'm thinking about sitting you back down in your chair and then getting on my knees - "

"Okay!" Sherlock said and stalked past her into the kitchen and then through it to his bedroom. "I'm taking a shower! Go get something to eat! Go now, please!"

He heard Ginny's laugh follow him all the way to his bedroom.

~*~

They reconvened in the sitting room in their usual spots - Sherlock in his chair and Ginny in hers - after they had eaten and showered (separately) and Ginny had made tea.

"Are you ready for the interrogation round of today's game?" Sherlock said. It was a phrase Ginny had come up with the first week she'd worked for him, playing off his insistence that being on a case was a game. They had gone to question someone and the witness had been left in tears after being brutally questioned by Sherlock so Ginny had pulled him aside and said _let me handle the interrogation round of today's game_. It had stuck, in the way that every you-had-to-be-there jokes often do, which is to say that it was funny because they were the only two people who got it.

"I am," she said and took a sip of her tea. She was wearing fleece lined leggings and a long-sleeved (not black) shirt. When he teased her about dressing like it was the arctic she said _I'm from Texas; anything higher above the equator than Oklahoma is the Arctic_.

"Go back over the phone conversation between you and your mother."

"She said she knew that Georgia had told me who the father of her baby was and that Georgia had also told _her_ who the father was and that if we put our information together we could find out who killed her and go to the police. I told her I didn't know who he was, which was true. I wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a lineup.

"I knew enough that if the police had bothered, they could have at least looked for him but I told the police all of that when I was eleven years old and they wrote it off as trauma. They had three convictions in the bag; they weren't going to waste police time on anything I was saying.

"She said that she just wanted to meet so we could match up information. Any extra information she had would be worth it. I asked her why she was doing it and she said she wanted justice. I don't think she meant for Georgia, though. I think their clients had hung them out to dry and they were pissed off and my mother was hoping she could get some revenge.

"I told her to - "

Suddenly Ginny stopped, her face screwed up in confusion.

"I was about to say, I told her to go fuck herself and then hung up but obviously that's not what happened. What does the court transcript say?"

"I'm not going to tell you that," Sherlock said, making sure his eyes made it clear that there would be dire consequences if she tried to find out on her own. "You're trying to correlate what you remember with what you know of the case. That's why the details are fuzzy. If you were to read the court transcripts, I believe it would trip something in your brain, a word, a code, something and suddenly you would remember it the way you did that night.

"I need you to tell me the way you remember it happening and then, when we've collected all that information, we can sit down together and go through the case and find out where the discrepancies are. My only other plan at this point is to find out who bribed Jessica Sanchez and that means calling her but I'm not going to do that unless I have some more information."

Ginny nodded her head in agreement, looking less insecure than the last time she'd had one of the dissonant memories.

"What do you remember after hanging up with your mother?"

"I went into the bathroom and shut the door and cried for about two minutes. I can talk about my sister without it hurting more than you would expect it to twenty-three years later. But hearing Libby Lynch saying her name…" Ginny shook her head and fiddled with the hem of her shirt. She wasn't the fidgety type, but then again she wasn't usually the one being questioned.

As if aware of his thoughts, she stilled. It was like watching water drain out of the tub. He hadn't realized how tightly her body had been wound until he saw her shoulders relax a tiny bit at a time and then she brought her hands up in her lap and then her brow cleared and then she brought back the smile he used to think of as sly and then thought of as knowing and now realized was just the way she held her mouth. It wasn't a smile or a _not_ -smile.

"Is it time for us to have sex yet?" she asked and then she did smile, wide enough to show her teeth, the grin breaking out of nowhere. One minute it wasn't there and the next it was.

"No," Sherlock said and glared at her _very_ sternly.

"Okay, then. Next question."

"What happened after you left the bathroom."

"I finished work and went home."

"And then?"

"This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy - well, fuzzi _er_. I remember getting in my car. I remember starting the engine. It was Friday and it was spring. I always parked my car at the edge of the parking lot where there was a row of trees planted. But my car was parked right outside the entrance and I remember being confused about that but then I remembered I had gotten caught in traffic on the way back to work from lunch and so I'd parked right in front of the office door.

"So I got in and the car wasn't as hot as it should have been. In San Antonio, in the spring, if your car had been sitting in the sun all day, it would be ninety-five or a hundred degrees inside but - "

"Good God!" Sherlock said. "No wonder you're dressed like an explorer in the Arctic!"

"This is what I'm saying," she said, spreading her hands. "Anyway, I could tell the air conditioner in my car had only been off a few minutes because it was still cool. Or, relatively cool. About seventy-five degrees I guess. Which meant that, not only had the engine not been off for long but it had been driven for quite some time for the air inside the car to be cooled down. If it had been a short trip, it would have heated back up immediately once I got out of the car.

Ginny paused for a moment and then she looked up at Sherlock and said, "I think I'm beginning to accept your I-was-drugged theory. You know, this is the first time I've talked about it since I was convicted. But now I see so many inconsistencies."

"Anyone who's read the files in those boxes can see those inconsistencies. This is what I've been trying to say all along. I've had a hard time equating the Virginia Lynch described in those files with my Virginia. When Mycroft dropped them off, he said the same thing. 'The Georgia represented in those files is not the Georgia we know.' I was so shocked by his unintentional display of emotion that I didn't consider his comment might mean anything more than 'Don't hold it against her'. Now I realize what he was saying."

"My Virginia?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said 'I've had a hard time equating the Virginia Lynch described in those files with my Virginia'."

Sherlock felt like he'd memorized lines for a play only to find, once he stepped on the set, that it was the wrong play.

"Well, obviously, you're not _mine_ ," he said and then paused. He looked at the fireplace wishing it could advise him on what to say. He laughed nervously and then cut it off abruptly. "I don't - I mean, I suppose - Did you _want_ to be mine?" he asked, trying to find his footing again.

Her mouth opened but no words came out. Her lips kept almost forming words and then she would stop.

"Just spit it out, Ginny, whatever it is you're thinking because I could use some direction here. Some guidance. So that I don't say something stupid and egregious."

Her face paled, he could see a slight tremor run through her body; she licked her lips, looking like she wanted to throw up and then she said, "I love you," after which she let out a huge breath and swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly with the effort. She cleared her throat and then sat up straighter, her face still pale. At least she didn't look like she was going to throw up anymore.

Sherlock stared at her in disbelief but she just looked back at him, composed again. Confident. Looking at him like she knew how much he was struggling and thought it was funny but wasn't going to make fun of him even though she really, really wanted to.

"I - well, obviously, I love you as well," Sherlock said, feeling like he was saying something entirely different because although he was saying the words _I love you_ he sounded like he was saying something more like _You are a very competent and agreeable person_. Wasn't there supposed to be more loving type feelings rather than just an admission of fact? Wasn't an ethereal, angelic feeling of…something or other…supposed to wash over you? Weren't you supposed to be doing something romantic, which would really be _anything_ other than interrogating the object of your love about the murder she had committed?

"Hm," she said, tilting her head. "That's interesting."

"What's interesting?" he asked, fidgeting like a schoolboy outside the headmaster's office.

"I didn't think you would say it," she said, nodding her head in respect.

"Well, I'm not just saying it because you said it first," he said, wondering if maybe he'd just been the victim of a practical joke and now looked like a fool for professing his love.

"I know," she said. "I've known for a while. I knew you would come around."

How could she be so confident about something like that? What superior intelligence did she have that allowed her to see in him that which he didn't even know he had felt until that moment?

"What if I hadn't?" he asked, feeling that sense of contrariness rising up in him.

"Okay, I was ninety-five percent sure you would come around," she said and spread her palms.

Hesitantly Sherlock got up and walked over to Ginny's chair before bending forward.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling her head back to look at him.

"I'm going to kiss you," he said and tried to smile.

"Why?" she asked. Then, "I mean, I'm all for kissing. I'm just curious why you're kissing me now, especially since you look like you're afraid I'm going to bite you."

"When you profess your love to someone, isn't it customary to kiss that…someone?"

"Is it? Well!" she said and clapped her hands cheerfully before getting to her feet in front of him. "Let's kiss!"

He leaned in and she leaned in and their lips touched and Sherlock inhaled sharply at the now familiar burn of desire that seemed to bloom in his chest and his stomach and his groin simultaneously. Every time he kissed her, he thought _this time it won't be as overpowering_ and then every time it overpowered him; he simply lost any sense of decorum and his grip on discipline. It never felt like that was going to happen; at first he always thought he could keep a handle on it. At first it was just an indolent pooling heat, pleasing and satisfying, like the first bite of something really good that you savored the taste of.

But then she would sigh or gasp or press her body against his or open her mouth and seek out his tongue with hers and eventually the hunger overwhelmed that desire to linger over the taste. Eventually the hunger became so overpowering that he sometimes thought there must be something wrong with him because surely nobody had sex this much or wanted to have sex this much. Well. Except for him and Ginny because he wasn't alone in this mad headlong rush that was their relationship. Her lack of experience gave her a childlike lack of discipline; she would gorge herself on sex if he would have let her.

He suspected that entering into their first (he wasn't counting Irene anymore) sexual relationship this far into adulthood gave them a confidence and self-assurance that one didn't have in their teens or twenties. They weren't embarrassed by nudity or biology; they were willing to experiment and never afraid to say _no_ or _faster_ or _to the left please_ or _your elbow is poking me_. It meant that they had achieved, in a very short time, a superior grasp on how to delight the other, making getting each other off far too easy. That had been fun in the beginning, Ginny having orgasms by the dozen, Sherlock significantly less as many but still glorious nonetheless.

But after that first gluttonous week, after the terrible case of the baby that had so shaken them, it was less important to feed the fire than it was to immerse themselves in the joy of each other, to give themselves over completely, to linger over each other. They learnt how to keep the other one right on the edge of orgasm, knowing when to back off and when to again apply stimulation to the task so that when the other came, it was with amazing intensity, an almost euphoric, religious-like experience.

"Do you know why I came to London?" Ginny asked, pulling back to look at him, her arms still circled around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Because you were running from the law?" he asked, his mouth pulled up slightly in one corner.

"I came to find you," she said. "My aunt sent me. I didn't know anything about you until I was in jail during the trial. I was still allowed to send emails and letters. My aunt sent me an email and told me to find Sherlock Holmes.

"The thing is, I had no plan to run. You know how people say 'the minute they did such-and-such, something inside me died'? Well, the minute they slapped the handcuffs on me, something inside me died. I just didn't care anymore. There were only two people I loved in the world then - my sister, Georgia, and my aunt Kathy. Georgia was dead and Kathy was in prison and she had done it to save me from the terrible prison my parents had put me in and I repaid that gift by throwing my freedom away.

"Her exact words in the email were 'In London there's a man named Sherlock Holmes. I think he can save you.' I don't think this is what she meant," Ginny said and gestured between the two of them. "But I'll take it."

"That was very romantic," he said and grinned.

"Well, you did yours last night, I figured I should do mine," she said and also grinned.

"We've neatly squared away all this love and romance business, haven't we?"

She spread her palms and said, "And I think we can both agree that there's no need to always be saying it."

"I wholeheartedly concur."

"How's your hypothalamus feeling?" she asked and pressed her body against his.

"Absolutely nuclear," he murmured against her lips.

"Giddyup," she said and he laughed.

~*~

Sherlock knew that having sex when he was supposed to be solving a case was totally irresponsible and so he did the only thing his conscience could live with and that was working _whilst_ having sex.

"What did you do when you got home?" Sherlock asked, his voice slightly rough.

"Erm…" Ginny said and then gasped. She wasn't quite as adept at multitasking as Sherlock was, clearly.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked and grinned.

"Let's see, I went home and I think I got the gun and…oh, my God, stop pushing your hips up like that; it makes it hard to think…and then I got back in the car and then drove."

"Did you stop anywhere along the way, anywhere there were people?"

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock…I can't have sex and answer questions…oh, God!...at the same time."

"Shame," Sherlock said. "You'll have to get off then. We'll finish this later."

In revenge, she thrust _her_ hips forward and Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. But she gamely got off and settled against the headboard, pulling the duvet over herself. They weren’t even panting hard. It was almost like they'd just needed to have a little bit of sex; enough to take the edge off.

"Tell me, Ginny, when you got the gun and put it in your car, did you intend to kill your mother?"

"No," Ginny said and looked him in the face. "No. I never planned on killing anybody. I don't even know why I brought it with me."

"Interesting," Sherlock said. "So you drove. Did you stop anywhere along the way?"

"No," she said and shook her head. "I just drove straight through."

"A hundred and forty-four miles. How long would that have taken you?"

"Well, at that time of day on a Friday, it would've taken me thirty minutes to get from my apartment to I-10. After that, it's maybe two and a half hours?"

"Was there a lot of traffic?" he asked.

"Can you go get that sweater for me? Right there?"

"You mean jumper?"

"Yes, that."

Sherlock fetched the jumper for her, thinking how lucky she was that he would fetch anything for her, as he wasn't the fetching type.

"Here," he said handing it to her. He watched her pulling it over her head. "Traffic?"

"I'm gonna say no? I hadn't driven on Interstate 10 in twelve or so years. When I turned eighteen and left my foster family, I left Houston and never looked back. My aunt was incarcerated in the prison outside of Hondo - a small town on Highway 90 - and I visited her every weekend but Hondo is west of San Antonio and Houston is east."

"What was the weather like?" he asked.

"It was cold, well not cold; I suppose you would think it was cool. About sixty degrees. It was humid - it's always humid around Houston - and it was breezy, really."

"So you drove up to the dirt lot. Was she already there?"

"Yes."

"Was there anywhere near you where someone could hide?"

"No."

"Was she in her car or outside of it."

"Well, in it. Like I said, it was chilly outside. Well, for Texans."

"Okay, tell me exactly what happened from the moment you drove up."

"Well, I got the gun out of the glove compartment then got out of the car. She got out of her car. We were about twenty-five feet apart. She started to walk towards me and I told her to stop and I said, 'This is for Georgia,' and I shot her."

Ginny looked down at her hands and then reached for the duvet and pulled it all the way up so that only her head was poking out, as though she was trying to hide as much of her body as possible from inspection.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked.

"That’s it."

"How did you feel before you shot her?"

"Enraged."

"When did you decide to kill her?"

"When I saw her walk towards me."

"When you got out of your car, were you planning on killing her?"

"No," Ginny said.

"So why get the gun out?"

"I guess to threaten her with, maybe?"

"Did you have any reason to believe she would hurt you?"

"No."

"So why get the gun out?"

"I don't know! Because I was angry! I wanted her to die!"

"When did you start feeling angry?"

"When I saw her," Ginny said, enunciating each word, her voice rising in frustration.

"How did you feel before you saw her?"

"Tired," Ginny said.

"How tired? Tired enough to sleep? Groggy? Or just sleepy?"

Ginny pulled in a deep breath before letting it slowly out of her nose. Her brow was wrinkled in thought. "I was sleepy. I wanted to lay down in the backseat."

"You said you felt tired, but that's physical. What about your emotional state?"

"Empty, really, I guess. It's almost like I felt _nothing_. I was indifferent and then I was enraged and then I was indifferent again," she said, and although Sherlock noticed the tears glimmering in her eyes, he refused to let himself feel any sympathy for her. They were right on the cusp of a breakthrough. He could _feel_ it.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, his eyes ablaze. "This is what I see. As soon as you turned eighteen, when the state considered you an adult and no longer subject to the foster care system, you left the city where you were born and raised, the city where you had been brutally raped, where your sister had also been brutally raped and then murdered for the sin of being pregnant. You didn't want to be around anyone or anything that reminded you of that.

"When your mother called, you said you told her to 'fuck off' and hung up on her, which conflicts with your testimony in court. You also said when you got the gun from your home, you had no intention to kill her. The whole two hours and thirty minutes that you drove to meet your mother, you had no intention to kill her. When you drove up to the crime scene, where you allegedly murdered your mother, you had no intention to kill her nor did you feel any aggressive emotions. You felt empty and tired. You were not afraid that she would hurt you.

"And yet, when you got out of the car, you already had the gun in your hand. If you had no intention to kill her and weren't afraid for your person, why get the gun out? She got out after you did. So if she was armed, you wouldn't have seen it until you had already exited your vehicle which you did _with the gun already in your hand_!

"No intention to kill her," he said, counting them off on his fingers. "No fear for your person. No feelings of rage or anger or any other emotion people generally feel when they murder other people. In fact you felt nothing _and_ you were tired. There was absolutely no reason for you to have the gun in your hand when you got out of the car."

"And you think this means I'm remembering it wrong?"

"No," Sherlock said, turning towards her and grabbing her by the shoulders. "I'm saying that you were drugged the minute you got home from work and you were drugged whilst driven the one hundred and fifty miles to the crime scene. I'm saying that someone shot your mother, planted the idea of rage in your head, put the gun in your hand and then called nine one one to report shots fired."

"That's pretty fanciful, Sherlock," she said and leaned her head back against the frame of the bed.

Sherlock jumped up from the bed, grabbed his dressing gown off the floor and put it on, cinching the belt quickly and then started pacing back and forth beside the bed.

"Generally when people commit murder, their bodies are primed with adrenaline, whether it's a premeditated act, a crime of passion or self-defense. Any highly stressful situation triggers your brain to get your adrenal glands pumping. Your heart rate would have been elevated, increasing blood pressure. Adrenaline also expands the air passages of the lungs so you can suck in more oxygen thereby feeding the brain and the muscles. It enlarges the pupil so you can pull in more details. It redistributes blood to the muscles so that you can react faster. It maximizes blood glucose levels, which your brain gorges on so it can keep the adrenal glands working and all these functions going. This is why people crash after an adrenaline high. This is your body at its fastest, it's smartest, it's best!

"You would _not_ have felt tired or empty. You would _not_ have gone from indifferent to enraged in the few seconds it took for your mother to get out of her car and walk towards you. What was she wearing? What was the expression on her face? Did she start walking towards you with purpose or was she shuffling along?"

"I don't know!" Ginny shouted and covered her face with her hands. Her body was trembling and Sherlock wanted to put a hand on her shoulder but he didn't. He waited. His Ginny always kept her head. _Always_.

"I don't remember what she was wearing. Probably a jacket - "

"No! Don't guess! Tell me exactly what you remember!"

"I remember her walking towards me. I don't know what she was wearing. Her face was…disgusted. She looked like she didn't want to be anywhere near me. And then I raised the gun and her face looked scared and I said 'This is for Georgia' and I shot her three times, all body shots."

"Where did you learn to fire a gun?"

"I didn't."

"You landed three body shots without reloading. The clip of your weapon held nine bullets plus one in the chamber. There were seven bullets left when the police arrived and took the weapon from you. You landed three body shots, without knowing how to fire a gun, without learning how to handle recoil.

"Oh, and one more thing. You said you raised the gun and _then_ said 'this is for Georgia,' right?"

She nodded.

"The second she saw the gun in your hand, she would have turned to run. If she was smart, she would have gotten back into her car and driven away. She was clearly not a stupid woman, as she managed to run a sex slave ring for two years without getting caught. But she stood there and let you shoot her in the chest three times?"

"Give me a minute to catch up," she said. "The first time I shot her, I would have staggered back from the recoil and then had to aim again, by which point she would've hauled ass out of there. I couldn't have raised the gun and _then_ said 'this is for Georgia' because in the two seconds it would take for me to say that, she would at least have started to turn to run, in which case the first bullet would have hit her in the side. I wouldn't have felt tired or indifferent on the drive over there and I wouldn't have gotten out of the car with the gun in my hand since I had no intention of killing her nor was I afraid that she would hurt me. So I wasn't drugged and then hypnotized or whatever - to pull the trigger myself. Someone else did all that, someone who knew how to use a gun, someone who could get three body shots off quickly without her having enough time to react. And then that someone put the gun in my hand and - but how did the powder burns get on there?"

"She was already dead," Sherlock said with confidence. "She was shot twice in the chest, clean exit wounds. She was already down when the third bullet was shot at an angle suggestive of the gunman standing _over_ her. It fractured two ribs and then lodged against the back of her rib cage. Part of what made you look so guilty was that 'you' shot her after she was already down. I think the gunman walked you over to the body, wrapped his - or her - hand around yours and pulled the trigger, called the police and left you there to be caught.

"And that's the other thing. Why, oh, why would you just sit there for the fifteen minutes it took the police to arrive? They found you sitting in the driver's seat, the gun in your lap, and your forehead pressed against the steering wheel. You were told to put the weapon on the passenger seat and to step out of the car with your hands behind your head and then kneel on the ground, which you did. One of the officers noted that you looked like you were 'out of it' but all the drug and alcohol tests came back negative.

"I _know you_ , Virginia. I worked with you for two months on a daily basis. Nothing here makes any sense to me when I compare it with what I know about you."

Sherlock whirled around, his dressing gown whipping around his legs and pointed at her with his eyes narrowed.

"I can't get you to go six blocks to pick up a carton of milk but you would drive one hundred and fifty miles just to have a chat with a woman you hated?"

Ginny lifted up one corner of her mouth and then said, "Okay, genius. You've convinced me. So how do we prove it?"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he let himself fall forward onto the bed. Into the duvet, his voice muffled, he said, "I'm fucked if I know," and Ginny laughed hard enough to shake the bed.

"Only you would laugh about this," Sherlock said, after he lifted his head up.

"I'm not laughing about murder. I'm laughing _at you_ ," she said, lifting up her eyebrows.

Sherlock started climbing on the bed towards her and she giggled, bringing her hands up as though to ward him off. He took her hands and twined their fingers together before pressing them into the mattress on either side of her. He kissed her and then pulled back to look at her.

"I honestly have no idea why I like you," he said, looking serious.

"Because I'm a _beast_ in bed," she said, laughing, and then pulled her hands out of his and pushed him onto his back before working her way out of the duvet. She pulled off her jumper, knelt between his legs and then pushed aside his dressing gown only enough to give her access. Sherlock watched her, his head lifted up off the mattress, until she bent her head and then he let his head drop back and groaned in joyful anticipation of her mouth wrapping around the head of his cock.

He was not disappointed.

~*~

Later, after they had dressed and had something to eat, Ginny sent a text to John telling him she was moving into his old bedroom and when he got off work to call her. He responded back right away and said she didn't have to come get her stuff; he would bring it.

Then Ginny and Sherlock went downstairs to tell Mrs. Hudson who said, "Sherlock, I can't believe you're not letting this lovely young woman move into _your_ room. You're sleeping with her for heaven's sake. It's a bit rude, making her move into a separate room."

"She's the one who wanted it!" Sherlock said, pointing accusingly at Ginny.

"It's true, Mrs. Hudson. I really need my own space. You know how he can be. I would leave him within a week if I had to share a bedroom with him."

"Oh, that's true," Mrs. Hudson said, looking thoughtful. "Well, it will be nice to have the space being used again. Maybe one day it can be turned into a nursery!"

Sherlock snorted and Ginny looked at her feet and pulled on the hem of her shirt.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said, looking at each of them in turn. "You can say it's not going to happen but you never know."

" _I_ know," Sherlock scoffed and then shuddered. "I have no interest in having children. _Ever_. Horrible things, children. Always screeching and sticky and disobedient, carrying germs like plague rats. _Ugh_."

Mrs. Hudson widened her eyes at Sherlock and then shifted them towards Ginny. Sherlock frowned. Mrs. Hudson did it again.

"What on earth are you trying to say, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and sighed with exasperation. "Don't mind him, Ginny, dear. He thinks he doesn't want them now but just you wait. They have a biological clock, too, men, though they act like they don't. He's right at that age when they start feeling it, as well."

"Yes, fine, whatever, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "John's bringing her things by this evening."

"Tonight? But there's nothing up there! Not a stick of furniture. Not even a rug!" Mrs. Hudson said, hurrying them out of her flat and up the stairs to John's old room.

Sherlock peeled off at the door to his flat. "This is where I leave you, ladies," he said. "I have a case to work on." He looked at Ginny with wide eyes that said _don't take forever_ but Ginny's eyes flicked away from his, like she was avoiding him, and Sherlock frowned, confused.

When she had gotten back from a mini-tour of the mini-flat that was about to be hers, Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her over to her chair, where he sat her down.

"The next step is to find out where Jessica Sanchez is getting her money. But I need _you_ to research drugs that can affect memory and free will, like rohypnol."

He turned around and grabbed his laptop and slammed it down onto her legs. "Start searching."

He turned back around, his hand in his pocket, about to pull his phone out when he thought of something and whirled back to face Ginny. "When you see John, ask him to look into it as well."

"Do you really not ever want to have children?" he heard Ginny ask in a voice that was studiously casual, which she pulled off quite admirably, but Sherlock could hear the note of - what was it? Disappointment? - in her voice.

"No, I don't. Do you?" he asked, without turning around to face her.

"I don't know," she murmured. The hint of disappointment had gone and in its place was something else that Sherlock couldn't finger. This was why he had always gotten so frustrated with her in the past. She was too damn good at being unreadable!

Sherlock heard her open up the laptop and the tapping of her fingers on the keys. She said nothing more but Sherlock sat thinking, not about the case, which is what he should have been thinking about, but about Ginny's question. Did they need to have a discussion about having children? If she really felt she needed a child - thought he had no idea why - then he supposed he could think about it. He liked Rosie well enough. Well, he _loved_ her but loving someone was not the same as liking them. Rosie was sharp, devious, clever, and not exceedingly tiresome, all qualities Sherlock valued.

If Sherlock and Ginny had a child, she would probably be a lot like Rosie. It might not be the worst thing in the world, really. Of course, it was completely inadvisable at this point in their lives whilst a murder charge was hanging over Ginny's head. But then again, she was thirty-four years old. If they were going to do it, it would have to be soon because after the age of thirty-five, the genetic material in a woman's eggs started getting buggy. And quite frankly, his sperm were probably not at their best. He suddenly regretted not putting some away in a sperm bank when he was younger like Mycroft had. When Mycroft had suggested it, Sherlock refused mostly because he liked saying no to anything Mycroft suggested, but then again, he would have never thought himself interested in falling in love much less having children.

He was afraid to say anything, though, because if he brought it up then maybe it would give her the idea that _he_ wanted to have children. It was probably best just not to talk about it unless she brought it up again. He heaved out a huge sigh and got to work.

~*~

Ginny had to go back to work a few days later, which Sherlock thought was ridiculous but he was secretly happy to have her out of the flat. She was his partner, so he needed her help, but he was about to apply some tactics that he didn't think she would approve of.

Sherlock tapped in the home phone number for Jessica Sanchez.

"Hello?" A woman's voice, quiet.

"Jessica Sanchez?" he asked, adopting his usual brusque manner.

"Uh, Sanchez was my maiden name. It's Jessica Massey now."

"Irrelevant. My name's Sherlock Holmes. I'm a detective and I have some questions to ask you about the murder case involving Ginny Lynch."

He could practically hear her trembling over the phone.

"I don't have to answer any questions about that."

"Don't hang up, Mrs. Massey," he said, his voice lowering just enough to sound coolly threatening.

"Who are you? Why are you calling me?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly but not backing down.

"I consult with New Scotland Yard here in London. I've taken an interest in the murder case of Ginny Lynch. Are you familiar with it?"

"What does it have to do with me?"

"Well, I believe Miss Lynch was framed and I have reason to believe you may have supplied information to the person or persons who are really responsible for Libby Lynch's murder. In other words, that you helped frame Miss Lynch for murder."

"That's ridiculous! Why would I do that?"

"Well, you did recant your testimony against the Lynches from twenty years ago, which led to Libby Lynch's release from prison. I've gone over that court case and it seems clear to me that the Lynches committed terrible crimes against you, Ashley Rooney, Georgia Lynch and Ginny Lynch. I don't believe you lied about your testimony in that case. I think you're lying now. I happen to know you've been receiving money since February of 2015 and that you recanted the next year. In short, Mrs. Massey, you were bribed. The evidence is clear."

"Why is a detective from London interested in Ginny's case, huh? How did you even find out about it? Where is Ginny?"

"Oh, I have no idea where Miss Lynch is. I took interest in her case when it was brought to my attention by a friend. The evidence doesn't completely stand up to a second viewing. I am a champion for justice, Mrs. Massey. I don't think Ginny Lynch has received justice. You are partially to blame for the fact that Miss Lynch is on the run. So tell me. Who offered you the money to recant?"

"Fuck you," she said cheerfully, and hung up the phone.

Sherlock looked at his mobile accusatorily.

"Right," he said into the silence of his flat and then laid his head down on the desk and groaned.

~*~

 


	7. The End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afer making no headway on Ginny's case, tragedy strikes (gasp!). Sherlock relies heavily on John to help him deal with it.
> 
> This is my little love story chapter to Sherlock and John.
> 
> Oh and I've taken some great liberties here with St. Mary's Hospital. Everything about it including the layout and the PALS stations is true and they have a Center for Surgical Innovation but everything else is made up by me!!

A week before Christmas, at eight in the morning, Sherlock looked up from his laptop to see Ginny buttoning up a cardigan over her long sleeve (not black) t-shirt.

"You're running late for work," he said, looking back down at his laptop. So far they had made zero headway on her case.

"I have to take care of something," she said sitting down in her chair and lacing up her boots. "I probably won't be back for a few hours."

"You look funny," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock. I'll be back before lunch."

"I wish you'd told me you were going to take the day off," he said, peeved, although hearing her say his first name instead of _Holmes_ had still not lost its thrill, as though she was saying something illicit rather than just a name.

"As soon as I get back, I'll go up to my room. You won't even notice I'm here," she said sounding remote. She picked her bag up off the floor. It was the same old messenger bag. Horrid thing but apparently she had attached some emotional significance to it.

"I'm not saying you have to go up to your room," Sherlock said, feeling like he had done something wrong but not knowing what. "Why won't you tell me where you're going. You're being evasive." Suddenly it dawned on Sherlock exactly what was going on. "You're going Christmas shopping! I can't believe you're going to waste time buying Christmas presents. Please remember, I get all my suits tailored and I don't wear ties. And my cuffs all have buttons, so no cuff links. Although I think I can trust your taste in anything else. Oh, and don't expect a present from me. I hate Christmas."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said absentmindedly as she walked out of the flat. He heard her pulling her coat off the hook, the red one with the white silk lining, and then the front door of 221B Baker Street slammed shut.

He went back to scrolling through the information he had received from Mycroft on the money trail of Jessica Sanchez's IRA.

~*~

Sherlock wasn't at all worried when lunch came and went without her reappearance. He sent her a text asking when she was coming home. He rang her an hour after lunch, still more annoyed than concerned but she didn't answer so he sent another text. He was slightly worried at three in the afternoon when she had been gone seven hours and rang her again but she didn't pick up and he didn't leave a message. When it started getting dark, a little before four in the afternoon, he left a message saying, "You can't say you're going to be back within a certain time period if you are not, in fact, going to be back within that time period. Furthermore, it's _polite_ to answer your phone when you are running late. It's even more polite if I don't have to call you first, but I'll let it slide this once. Call me at once." At tea time, when it was full dark outside, he called John.

“Ginny left this morning at eight to go Christmas shopping and she hasn't come home,” Sherlock said without preamble when John answered the phone. “Which wouldn't be that alarming except she said she would be home by lunch and she's not answering her phone. I've rang her several times.”

"What did you do to upset her?" John asked.

"I won't bother asking why you assume it's _my_ fault because it usually _is_ my fault. However, in this case, it's not pertinent. We didn't argue; we never argue because she always goes upstairs as soon as I start shouting.”

“I'm sure she's just caught up in all the crowds out Christmas shopping. Her first Christmas in London she probably didn't realize how crowded the shops would be.”

“Well, that's the thing,” Sherlock said feeling sheepish, like someone caught telling an embarrassing but not very important lie, even though he'd done nothing of that sort. “She didn't _say_ she was going Christmas shopping. She said she had to go take care of something and would be gone a few hours. She was being evasive and I assumed she was going Christmas shopping because it's a week away and why else would she not tell me where she was going or what she was going to be doing? She didn't correct me when I guessed it but now I'm wondering if she might not have actually, as I had suspected, gone out Christmas shopping, but gone to do something entirely different.”

“Bloody hell,” John said, but he said it almost absentmindedly. “Let me call my friend Gina to come sit with Rosie and then I'll be over as soon as I can. Call Lestrade in the meantime. Don't go out looking for her yourself. Stay at the flat in case she comes back.”

Sherlock filed _my friend Gina_ away for future analysis and then said, “Why should I call Lestrade?”

“Because he has the resources to start looking for her.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said and realized that he had been much more worried than he'd let himself believe and now the worry was taking up residence in his mind, settling itself down for a long cozy lie-in and not looking to be uprooted any time soon. “Right.”

“I'll be there within the hour,” John said gently as though realizing what Sherlock was only now himself realizing. “If Gina can't make it I'll have to bring Rosie.”

“Oh, that's not a problem,” Sherlock said, thinking to himself _she'll be a lovely distraction_.

~*~

Sherlock called Lestrade who said, "Please tell me this isn't another one of your cries for help and then when I get there, you'll be needing a clue for the crossword or something like that."

"Why would I need _your_ help doing the crossword?" Sherlock huffed. "And anyway, I wasn't the one who thought of phoning you. John told me to call because you would have the resources to - that is, you could…look for her whereas I need to stay here. In case she comes home."

"Alright," Lestrade said, his voice taking on that gentle tone that John's voice had.

"I'm not _that_ worried," Sherlock snapped. "Only it's dark outside and she _is_ an American and very nervous out on the streets because she gets turned around so easily." Only the parts about it being dark and her being American were true; the rest he said because he hated anyone feeling sorry for him.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Lestrade said, not sounding the least bit like he believed Sherlock. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Do you have a picture of her? Write down a description of what she was wearing so I can pass it out to the squaddies."

"No need to rush," Sherlock said casually, although he wished Lestrade was there _now_.

"It's not a problem, Sherlock. The sooner I get there the sooner we can start looking for her, yeah?" Lestrade said.

"Right," Sherlock said and hung up.

After their phone call, Sherlock took the back stairs up to Ginny's room to poke around and see if he could find any clues as to where she went. He carried his mobile in the pocket of his dressing coat. The notification sound and ring tone were both set to maximum volume and he also had the vibration intensity turned up as high as it could go. He reminded himself of both of those things every time he found himself with the urge to check his phone, which was often.

Ginny's room was colorful. Her curtains were purple and green and orange _horrid_. Her duvet was green and red. The colors hardly matched but she didn't seem to care. It turned out her black phase had been a result of practicality and life on the run. She almost never wore black now and wore skirts sometimes, which pleased Sherlock to no end as he had become indecently fond of them. She still wore jeans but not as often as plain women's trousers or leggings for more casual days; pajamas for really lazy days.

She had blossomed under Mycroft's tutelage, a fact which never ceased to amaze Sherlock. Clearly his brother had seen in her the same potential that Sherlock had and had been only too happy to exploit it. _It's like having a female version of you around. Except I don't despise her company_ , Mycroft had told him and thinking of it now, Sherlock was reminded of Lestrade's comment all those months ago. _She's like a female version of you_ , he had said and Sherlock had replied, _b_ _ut not clever_ and he and Ginny had laughed their way home and had wonderfully hot and dirty sex up against the flat door.

Ginny's bed was unmade; it almost always was. She usually left her room in a state of disarray that made Sherlock uncomfortable. He took the time while he was there to make her bed, smoothing out the duvet. He only just stopped himself from picking one of her pillows up and inhaling her scent. She never wore perfume - she said it gave her a headache - but her shampoo and deodorant and the skin lotion she sometimes wore on her hands were all around the flat and in his nose all the time. When he walked into the flat now it smelled a lot less like cigarettes and a lot more like Ginny.

Sherlock plumped the pillows up against the head of her bed and then picked a few items of dirty laundry off the floor and tossed them in the hamper. He straightened the books on their bookshelf. He turned to the wardrobe. He opened it up and slid his fingers along the clothes hanging there. She took almost loving care of her clothes and often demanded he give a comment on something new she had bought, which he had found so tedious until it occurred to him one day that it was probably the first time in her life she had had nice clothes. After that, he listened to her gush about new clothing purchases like it was actually interesting.

Despite her affinity for fashion, she was very conservative with money, a restraint Sherlock was impressed by. He himself had never cared about money. He always had some and he could always get more and there was always Mycroft or Mummy and Daddy if he couldn't get any more. Ginny was proud of every cent she earned. She did her job punctiliously if Mycroft was to be believed. She never treated it like a sinecure, which is what it had been originally. When Sherlock suggested she call in sick or take a few days off, she would look at him in horror and chastise him for treating it so casually. _It's my job_ , she said. _My responsibility. I can't treat it lightly just because I'm sleeping with the boss's brother._ She had made Sherlock feel like a spoiled child and he thought that he probably was still a little childish even after the ten years he had spent learning how to be an adult. He would never have to be poor; he could afford to turn down uninteresting cases. He could choose to work for pleasure and even though he would gladly have supported her for as long as she worked with him, the rest of her life even, she insisted she loved her job. He hadn't believed her at first but after a month of living with her and watching her skip off to it every weekday, he'd had to admit she wasn't lying.

He was a little jealous, though, that she went off to be with Mycroft nine hours of the day and was only with him in the evenings and weekends. _Don't be silly! I don't ever see Mycroft unless I'm turning in a report. Or if we're having lunch. Or in the car when he picks me up and drops me off_. He'd gone into a sulk after that and felt ridiculous that he was jealous of Mycroft, as though Ginny thought of him as anything other than a kind uncle and clearly Mycroft saw her in the same light, the way he might a niece or a daughter. But Sherlock had been unable to shake the sulky feeling nonetheless.

Sherlock sat down at her vanity but avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Instead he picked up and put down all the items on the surface, sometimes opening them and sniffing them, mostly just lining them up neatly. He put some of the things away in the drawer, like her comb. She didn't use a brush because it made her hair frizzy she had said to which Sherlock had replied _I don't think your comb is working either as your hair is always frizzy_.

She may have been newly transformed from scrubby escaped convict to sleek intelligence analyst but she still wore very little makeup. So it was with some confusion that Sherlock asked her why she kept buying it. _It's pretty. And you never know when I might need to wear it somewhere._ He'd snorted. She was like a little girl playing dress up. On the weekends, she would do her eyes and cheeks and lips and then wash it off and redo them in different colors.

One Saturday in irritation, he had slapped the paper down on his lap and huffed out _please tell me why you keep coming down to the bathroom to wash your face off; you're irritating me. S_ he smiled and asked  _do you want to try it?_ It was a testament to his love for her that he had consented. _You make a beautiful woman_ , she had said and he'd had to admit she was right. He was quite lovely. They had both washed off their makeup and made tea and he had finished reading the paper and she had set things on fire in the kitchen and he had stepped outside of the scene for a moment and looked with affection at the two of them content in their little disordered bubble. Two people could not have been more poorly situated or disinclined to fall in love and yet, there they were having done just that. He'd said loudly without putting the paper down, _Ginny, I love you_ and she had called back from the kitchen _Can you get the propane torch? And, I love you, too_.

Happiness was a fragile, constantly shifting thing to hold onto. It was a lot like memory in that way. You could never really know if you'd got it right because you had nothing to compare it to, not even anyone else's happiness because the things that made them happy were sometimes so alien that you thought, surely, they must be deluding themselves. Also, having happiness didn't mean that one was always happy. He was often unhappy but he could unequivocally declare that he had found happiness with Ginny. Sherlock had analyzed it from every angle he could consider and the only thing he could conclude was that there was no one truth about happiness. Either you felt it or you didn't.

~*~

Sherlock heard Lestrade calling through the flat downstairs and rushed down to meet him.

"Hey, how you doing?" Lestrade asked, his brow furrowed.

"If you're asking whether or not I'm wringing my hands in distress, the answer is no."

"Right, well. Do you have the description I asked for?"

Sherlock handed him a photo of Ginny as well as a description of what Ginny had been wearing when she left.

"I'll have this sent out to all the A&Es in the area as well. Don't worry, we'll find her."

Right after Lestrade left, John arrived with Rosie in his arms and a large bag with pink elephants on it thrown over his shoulder.

"She'lock," Rosie said, holding out her arms for him. He took her out of John's arms. "She'lock, wot did you dun wit johjuh?" Rosie asked. "Where she at?"

"Oh, Lord," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You, too? I didn't drive her away this time, I assure you." Then he said, more quietly, to Rosie, "We're looking for her right now, darling."

John was shocked at hearing Sherlock call Rosie _darling_. He only ever called her Rosie or Watson, but never an endearment like that.

"Did she go to da shops?" Rosie asked.

"We don't know, sweetheart," John said.

"If she wen to da shops an she gonna get some chohklit den I take ma cwoze off!" Rosie said eagerly.

"Did she just say she was going to take her clothes off?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

John laughed. "When Ginny was living with us, she told Rosie that for every serving of fruit or vegetable she ate, she would give her one square of a dairy chocolate bar. Rosie took that challenge and ran with it. God, you can imagine the mess."

"No, I really can't," Sherlock said. "Seeing as how my only experience with children is Rosie."

"Well, take my word for it. It was a bloody mess. Ginny just laughed and cleaned up and told Rosie that from then on she could only eat chocolate if she took her clothes off to eat it and got in the bath directly after."

"Clever," Sherlock said, but he wasn't really listening anymore. He looked at his watch. It was almost six.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. We'll find her or she'll come back."

"And if we don't?" Sherlock said more sharply than he had intended. "Sorry. I feel - jumpy inside"

"Yeah," John said, his hands clenching into fists and then releasing and then clenching again.

Sherlock looked at John for the first time since he had walked in; really _looked_ at him. John suddenly rubbed both hands over his mouth and down his jaw. Sherlock forgot sometimes that Ginny had lived with him and Rosie for almost three months. She had been a daily part of John and Rosie's life just as long - actually a few weeks longer - than she had been a daily part of Sherlock's life.

"How did Rosie take it when Ginny moved out?" Sherlock asked.

John looked over at him in disbelief.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm just surprised it would occur to you that it would've been hard on her."

"So it _was_ hard on her?" Sherlock asked.

"It was sudden. Rosie was a bit confused."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Well, Ginny should have been more sensitive to her feelings. I figured you would be happy to be rid of her."

"We weren't _happy_ to be rid of her, no. But I was glad you had asked her to move back in with you. And Ginny _was_ sensitive to Rosie's feelings. She told Rosie that you needed her more than Rosie did because you had nobody whereas Rosie had me and then she promised her that she would come see Rosie every day after work."

"What a terrible promise to break!" Sherlock said horrified that Ginny would be so heartless.

"You have no idea, do you?" John asked, trying not to laugh. "She comes every day after work. For two hours. You never noticed she was gone?"

"She does?" Sherlock asked, feeling that same sense of having walked onto the wrong stage set whenever someone he knew talked about Ginny like they knew her in a way that he himself didn't.

John laughed. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "I didn't think - well. I didn't think, full stop. I decided I wanted her back and didn't consider anyone else's feelings. I'm sorry."

"Can I get that in writing?" John asked

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"Look, I love her like a sister. She's everything I wished Harry could have been. Ginny never got impatient, even when Rosie was an absolute horror. She always listens to Rosie like she's a real person with real feelings and not just a grubby toddler. She'll make a great mum, our Ginny. Mind you, nobody has that kind of patience for their _own_ kids but still. They love each other."

 _Our Ginny_ , Sherlock thought.

"You really did play happy families," Sherlock said, unable to keep the note of envy out of his voice.

"Oh, wipe that sour look off your face, you git. She's madly in love with you."

"Oh?" Sherlock said, feigning indifference.

"Before you go any further with that act, let me warn you that Ginny tells me everything."

"Everything?" Sherlock asked, his face coloring.

"Not _everything_. Just, you know. I mean, feelings."

"So what did she tell you?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not telling," John said, shaking his head. At the look on Sherlock's face, he laughed. "You can glare at me all you want, mate, I am not spilling a word."

"She told you I said I loved her, didn't she?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Nope. But she did tell me that _if_ I told you that she confided everything in me then you might confess that you had told her you loved her," John said, laughing and shaking his head.

"Did you - did she?" Sherlock sputtered.

"We outwitted you, Sherlock. But I think it's fantastic that you told her you loved her. It needed saying."

"For heaven's sake, John, don't look like _that_. It's not like I'm incapable of love. After all, I told you I loved you."

"After we had known each other five years and only because I said it first! Oh, and it happened to be my wedding day before you returned the sentiment."

"Well, if you'd let me sleep with you, perhaps I would have said it sooner," Sherlock said sarcastically.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and both started chuckling. It was good to laugh; he needed to be laughing right now. He needed to be doing anything right now other than picturing Ginny lost alone on the streets of London or laying severely injured in a little used alley or laid out in a morgue.

"You never told me exactly why you hired her, Sherlock."

"I don't remember," Sherlock said, evasive.

"Well, I know that's a lie. You remember everything."

"I deleted it," Sherlock said.

"You would never delete something like that."

"How would you know? I've never had to hire someone before."

"You didn't delete our first meeting."

"I've deleted many parts of our friendship, at least all the parts where you were an idiot which is most of it," Sherlock said.

"I know you remember," John said, ignoring the insult. After ten years of friendship, it was second nature for John to separate the insults that were really Sherlock's version of saying _I love you_ and the insults that were Sherlock's version of saying _I'm hurting and I need you and please don't let me drive you away_ and the insults that were actually insults. "Tell me why you decided I would be a good flatmate?

"You leant me you phone," Sherlock said. "I knew you were looking for a flatmate because I told Mike Stamford I needed one that morning and then there you were saying the same thing. You were a soldier so you spent plenty of time around death. You were a surgeon so you weren't put off by blood or extreme bodily trauma. You obviously had nobody else except a sister, although then I said brother, you preferred to avoid, which meant you were in the exact same position I was, by which I mean, desperate to avoid our respective siblings."

"Why did you say 'you leant me your phone'?"

"I already explained all that," Sherlock said, irritated.

"No. You explained everything else but that," John said.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "I knew you were a _nice person_ ," Sherlock said heaping as much scorn on the phrase as he possibly could. "I didn't do nice - still don't - but obviously you did and I knew it would be very helpful when I needed to question people."

"You once told me you delete everything that's unimportant. But you kept all of that. Are you telling me you remember the details of something that happened ten years ago but not something that happened six months ago?" John asked.

"She laughed," Sherlock said abruptly.

"What was that?" John asked, turning away from Rosie to face Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked terribly put out in the way he always did when he was having to discuss something that he didn't want to admit. He was still looking out the front window.

 "She laughed?" John asked, giving Sherlock his full attention.

"There were forty or fifty people who came to the building to apply for the job of assistant. Even if I had only given each person five minutes, it would have taken me half the day. I thinned the crowd by sending away anyone who was under thirty because I didn't want an assistant who was from an entirely different generation. Then I got rid of anyone who only came for an autograph. Then I got rid of a few people who I just didn't like the look of.

"There were still more than two dozen people and I couldn't begin to imagine how I was going to thin the herd further. They were all standing about tapping away on their mobile phones and ignoring everything around them. She was almost at the end, right inside the door, sitting cross-legged on the floor reading a book. An actual _paper_ book. I don't normally place much emphasis on something like that. I mean a book is a book regardless of the format it's in. But there were fourteen cookie cutter people and then _her_.

"And then she laughed," Sherlock said and John could hear the note of wonder that was still in Sherlock's voice even six months later. "You've heard her laugh; it's loud but somehow not obnoxious. It draws you in, like the Pied Piper. Everyone turned to look at her, including me, but she betrayed not even a _hint_ of self-consciousness. Her hair was frizzy and she wasn't wearing any makeup and her clothes were worn. She was nothing particularly special to look at."

"Promise me you will never say that to her face," John said with a bark of laughter.

Sherlock brushed him off with a wave of his hand.

"I asked her name and she said 'Georgia' and I asked her why she was sitting there and she said 'the assistant's job' and then she told me to go away because she was reading. She never even looked up, not once."

"She ignored you and you can't _bear_ to be ignored."

"Maybe," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "After I told her I was the detective, _obviously_ , she said, 'not obviously' and then she said if I wasn't going to interview her that I could go away so she could keep reading."

"That sounds like her," John said, laughing. "Let me guess. You couldn't stand that she had told you off."

"Don't be ridiculous. It seemed practical to hire the person who stood out from everyone else. I was really just being lazy. I didn't want to interview two dozen people."

"Right," John said. "That makes perfect sense."

"Well, come on, John. You know me better than anyone else in the world except maybe Ginny. When faced with a task I don't have any patience for, what do I do?"

"Pass it off to someone else?" John said and then laughed.

"Look, you asked me to tell you what it was about her that made me hire her and I told you. If you're going to mock me, we can go back to silence."

"Daddy don mohk She'lock," Rosie said from the floor.

"Yes! _Thank_ you, Rosie," Sherlock said and leaned over and patted her on the head.

"Traitor," John said to Rosie.

~*~

By nine o'clock, John had put Rosie to sleep in Sherlock's bed, while Sherlock paced up and down the sitting room, desperate for a cigarette, desperate to be out there looking for her, desperate to be doing _something_ other than sitting in this bloody fucking flat.

"Do you want some tea?" John asked from the kitchen.

"Yes," Sherlock said, more to give John something to do because John was looking grave and unhappy, too. Sherlock wasn't the only one who cared about Ginny.

Mrs. Hudson came up then with sandwiches and patted Sherlock on the shoulder before going into the kitchen to talk to John. Although their voices were hushed, Sherlock knew they were talking about him. _How is he holding up? Oh he's fine, Mrs. Hudson. It's still early days. She might walk in the door any minute. Oh, John, I hope so but it does seem unlikely, doesn't it? Just terrible, isn’t it? And after they've only been back together for a month_.

Thirty minutes later, Lestrade's heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and everyone jumped up out of their seats as soon as he came through the door except Sherlock who had already been standing.

"We've gone through the streets around the area, especially where there's shops. No sign of her, although I do have people still out looking. At this point, though," and Lestrade exchanged a look with John that Sherlock knew meant the same thing that John and Mrs. Hudson's hushed conversations in the kitchen meant.

"Just spit it out, Lestrade," Sherlock huffed. "I'm not an hysterical woman. I'm perfectly capable of being rational even when concerned about someone I care about."

"Right," Lestrade said and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I want to start ringing the hospital A&Es in the area and then spread out from there. I need you to give me a description of any - erm, distinguishing marks. Especially ones that might, erm, not be immediately obvious when…"

"You want to know if there are any distinguishing marks on her body that only a lover would know," Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Greg, you would think we were a trio of teenage boys."

"Yes, well, if you could just write it down, I'll have them put it out."

Sherlock sat down at his desk and was grateful for possibly the thirty-three thousandth time (if he considered he was grateful a thousand times per year since the age of ten) for his genius level observational skills. He could describe Ginny so well she would be unmistakable. He put his pen to paper and began to write and then finished it with a flourish and handed it to Lestrade who started reading it.

"I'm sorry, does this say 'mule tree'?"

"Give it here," John said. "I'll write it out more legibly."

Sherlock snorted.

When John handed the translated copy to Lestrade, he looked it over and nodded his head. "Right. Don't worry, Sherlock. We'll find her."

"So everyone keeps saying," Sherlock muttered. "It would be nice if we actually _did_ find her instead of talking about how we _will_ find her."

"Right," Lestrade said, exchanging another look with John.

At ten o'clock, Mrs. Hudson retired downstairs and about thirty minutes after that, John had fallen asleep sitting up on the couch. Sherlock was careful not to disturb him. He wanted to go back up to Ginny's room and have another look around but he didn't think there would be anything that would help in the search. He had considered about seven different scenarios of why she had gone off without telling him but none of them seemed like her style. Despite having hid the fact that she was a convicted murderer for two months, she wasn't a secretive person. Reserved, yes. Private, yes. Secretive, no. In fact, there had been times Sherlock had wished she was a little more secretive. There were some things he just really didn't need to know like that she had to go pee. On one notable occasion that he wanted to delete because it was disgusting but didn't want to delete because it was funny, she had explained the reason they never had sex first thing in the morning is that she was always particularly gassy in the morning and she didn't want to _fart while we're having sex_. Sherlock had replied, _while I appreciate your courtesy, I would have been happier with a less graphic explanation, perhaps a lie like 'I just don't like it.'_ She had laughed so hard, he had felt himself wanting to laugh. She had that effect on him.

Sherlock wondered how she had gotten herself into trouble out there on the London streets, so far away from his ability to shield her. But then, she had never needed shielding. She was incredibly resilient. If her triumph over her childhood trauma wasn't proof enough, the work she had done with him on the hardest cases proved it. The Ginny he knew _always_ kept her head. They had solved some terrible cases together and Ginny had never allowed her emotions to keep her from working. She had even kept her head during their worst case together; probably the worst case of Sherlock's career. They referred to it only obliquely because the dreadful horror of it hadn't diminished with time.

There had been a kidnapping about a week after they had slept together for the first time. It was an infant, eight days old, a baby boy. Sherlock immediately knew that a crime far more sinister than kidnapping had occurred. They solved it within twenty four sleepless hours, but they had been too late to save his life.

His mother had put him in a cardboard box and then buried him alive in the back garden.

Sherlock had already developed faith in Ginny's ability to stay calm in any situation, but when he and Lestrade had gone with the SOCO team to dig up the grave, he had been tempted to give her another task that would require she stay at the flat. But he had overridden the temptation and in the end his faith had been rewarded. She hadn't faltered, not once, not even after they brought the box out of the ground and opened it up. The only indication she had given of how upset she was had been an almost unnoticeable tremor and the fact that she had slipped her hand inside his as they stood by the hateful grave and squeezed it like she needed Sherlock to anchor her to the world.

Afterwards they had gone to the flat and straight into bed. It hadn't been the hungry and desperate yet playful sex they'd been having that whole week. Instead, Sherlock had seen in it a dark, aching beauty. It felt like they were sharing their grief without having to put it into words or make sense of it. It had given Sherlock a sense of stability that he had suddenly needed.

Ginny was tough and resilient and smart and capable and that only made Sherlock worry more because if she was all those things, then whatever had happened to keep her away from home for over twelve hours without notifying him or answering her phone must be so horrible that he tried to distract himself when he found his mind dreaming up gruesome scenarios. Ironically, the mental exercises he had used to do to repress his sexual urges he now did to suppress his desire to poke at the wound that was her disappearance.

~*~

At midnight, Sherlock's phone rang, startling him out of a doze. He hadn't even known he was asleep and at first he was confused about where he was. But it all came rushing back and he fumbled his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown. He didn't recognize the number but that didn't matter. It was either Ginny or someone who knew something about Ginny. Nobody else would call at midnight.

"Hello?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. He saw John stand up out of the corner of his eye, wiping his hand over his face as though wiping away his own fatigue.

"Hello, this is Joanne calling from St. Mary's hospital," a young woman's voice said when Sherlock answered. "Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"St. Mary's Hospital?" Sherlock asked, his heart suddenly beating against his ribcage hard enough that he was surprised it didn't hammer its way out.

"That's right, sir. St. Mary's on the Paddington Wharf? Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she asked again. _Joanne_ , he reminded himself, the name floating into his mind's eye from so far away.

"Yes," he said, all of the air of his lungs bursting out on that one word.

"Thank you for answering, sir; I know it's very late. I've just come on shift, you see, and there's an intake form here from last shift. A woman was brought in from a car accident. It looks like they couldn't get anything out of her what with her injuries and all, but they've written she only said one word before they sent her off to surgery. 'Sherlock,' she said. I guess the girls didn't want to call you what with you being famous and all but I thought there's no harm in calling, don't you think, sir?"

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, the anxiety in his voice palpable and then Sherlock realized it was because it matched his own. "Sherlock."

"Sir? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here," Sherlock said and was surprised to hear his voice didn't sound at all uneven. "What did she look like?"

"Well, dark hair, about a hundred sixty or seventy centimeters. There's not really much else, I'm sorry to say, sir."

"What about her clothes? Was she wearing a red coat?"

"Oh, very good, sir! Yes, she was. Says right here, 'red coat with white silk lining.'"

Sherlock registered the words distantly, like they were being spoken from very far away. The words didn't even seem to make any sense. All he could think about was Ginny in her red coat with the white silk lining laying in the street, mud and slush and road grease staining her coat. _I just couldn't resist the color. And that white silk lining? To die for._

"Do you know her, sir?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"Well, I do apologize for the confusion, sir. Like I said, my name is Joanne and if it wouldn't trouble you, could you come down to the hospital to identify - "

Suddenly, Sherlock's entire world seemed to stop and then split jaggedly into three pieces.

There was _before_ , when Ginny was called Georgia; when his biggest concern was dealing with the embarrassment at having John tease him about having a girlfriend. What a fucking ridiculous thing Sherlock thought now. _Before_ Sherlock had still considered himself a young man with the same immunity to illness and faster recovery time of a young man, even if he was not all that young anymore. Despite his history of drug abuse, he had always been healthy. He never got sick and even when he did it hardly slowed him down. _Before_ , when he had driven Ginny away with a few well-placed insults because he had been too proud and conceited to admit his culpability in her deceit. _Before_ , when he had caught pneumonia and almost died and not in a cool way like from a gunshot wound received while rescuing someone from certain death or from throwing himself off a building to save his friends. No, dying in the way _old people_ did. From a lung infection. _Before_ he had pretended Ginny didn't exist for two months, had never asked John or Mycroft how she was or what she had been doing or if she was still even around. Two months that he had wasted being the biggest most arrogant fucking cock to ever walk the earth when he could have been spending them with Ginny, who he had loved even then, even though he hadn't realized that's what it was.

Then there was the _after_ , where he had been living for a month, where Georgia was now called Ginny and had a fancy job and a fancy wardrobe and a red coat with a white silk lining. In the _after_ , he was no longer a young man but he certainly wasn't old. In the _after_ , he had been ridiculously, innocently happy. In the _after_ , he had understood, but only a little, why someone might want to get married, like with a real wedding and all, because it seemed selfish to keep all that happiness between the two of you; surely your friends and family would benefit from you tossing a little bit of it around. And also, wasn't it partly so you could be smug and superior and show everyone else how madly in love you were as opposed to their dull and uninteresting lives and Sherlock loved being smug and superior. In the _after_ , Ginny lived upstairs and sometimes when they had sex it wasn't just sex but making love and sometimes they snapped at each other for silly things like not putting the milk back in the fridge (Sherlock) or not putting a new toilet paper roll on the spinner (Ginny). In the _after_ , sometimes he slept in her bed and sometimes she slept in his bed although they still slept apart most of the time. In the _after_ Sherlock and Ginny could wake up at night only enough to tuck their bodies together and make love before falling back to sleep almost instantly afterwards as though their love was so deeply ingrained in their minds and their bodies that they didn't even have to be fully conscious to experience it.

And then there was the _now_. In the _now_ all of Sherlock's world and how he would go on from the _now_ and whether his future would be grey and uninteresting and he would be back to chasing cases for the high and watching other people be happy knowing he had had his chance and had wasted half of it being petty, all of that rested on the next words out of this stranger's mouth.

"Sir? Did you hear me? I was asking if you could make the time to come to the hospital and identify her when she gets out of surgery and also answer a few questions about her? We really need to get in touch with her next of kin."

 _Not dead, not dead, not dead_ Sherlock thought.

"I'm her next of kin," Sherlock said, because it was true in all the ways that mattered.

"Oh, that's wonderful news, sir!"

"Sherlock, give me the phone," John said, sounding strong and capable and _oh thank god he's here_. He turned to John and handed him the phone. John's face was drawn, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth suddenly so much more pronounced. Sherlock's body had been pumping with adrenaline but now he felt numb.

"I bet her coat's ruined," he mumbled, but nobody heard him.

He went to his bedroom and quietly, so as not to wake Rosie, got dressed.

~*~

John got Mrs. Hudson out of bed to sit with Rosie and she was wise enough not to ask for any information beyond that Ginny had been in a car accident, was in surgery right now and that they were going to the hospital.

"Well?" Sherlock asked when they were in the cab. He was leaning his forehead against the cold pane of the window. He didn't look at John.

"I had to pull rank to get any information out of them but luckily I know the head of surgery over at St. Mary's. It was a hit and run. Her legs were crushed beneath the tires. She was found almost immediately afterwards and was still conscious when the paramedics came for her, which is when she said your name. She lost consciousness right after. They called ahead and there was a team of surgeons waiting at St. Mary's as soon as she got there. They rushed her straight into the operating theater. She's still in surgery but she'll keep both legs.

"Sherlock," John said in a completely different voice that meant _I need you to look at me because what I'm about to tell you is something I don't want to tell to the back of your head_. So Sherlock turned his face towards John's and waited for yet another blow.

"Did you know that she was pregnant?" John asked in such a gentle voice that Sherlock knew John would not judge him for not knowing and being too stupid to notice. His face obviously said it all because John nodded and then said, "She was found a few streets over from The London Women's Clinic at about nine this morning."

"Is she still…?" Sherlock swallowed past something horrible in his throat.

John nodded. Sherlock felt something loosen inside of him and he was able to breathe a little easier.

"How far along?" Sherlock asked, his grip on his composure tightening.

"Four months," John said.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Sherlock said faintly and John put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pushed his head between his knees.

John kept his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck for about a minute and then said, "I'm going to move my hand and take the pulse in your neck. I want you to keep your head between your knees until I tell you to sit up, okay?"

Sherlock made an affirmative noise. John's voice was calm and steady, a doctor's voice of course. He was so grateful for John.

"Keep your head between your knees a little longer, Sherlock, okay?" John said, still in his calm doctor's voice. "How much longer?" he asked the cabbie.

"We're only ten minutes out, sir."

"When we get there Sherlock, you have to sit down with the liaison officer to go over all of Ginny's information as well as your information as her next of kin. Do you have any of her, erm… _new_ papers?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock croaked.

He heard John get out his phone and call Mycroft, was vaguely aware of Mycroft's voice coming out tinny and far away but still unmistakably upset and then _I'll fax them over_ and then _I have a meeting with the PM in a few minutes but I can be at St. Mary's in less than an hour_ and John saying _she's only just now coming out of surgery; we're just going to be here for twenty or thirty minutes._ And then Mycroft again _will you keep me updated, John? And not just about Virginia's health - Sherlock's too_ and Sherlock felt indignant and wanted to say _I am perfectly capable of…_ but the thought died as he recalled that he had his head between his knees and his eyes squeezed tightly shut like a frightened child.

He thought how ironic that Mycroft was faxing Ginny's papers over and sounding upset that she'd been in an accident when Mycroft had told him many years ago _All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage_ and they had felt so superior in not being ruled by emotions like the little people and here they both were…they had let themselves care, had let themselves _love_.

John took Sherlock's pulse again and then said, "Sit up."

When Sherlock sat up, his head spun for a moment. "A boy or a girl?" Sherlock asked, holding onto John's arm to steady himself.

"A girl," John said.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice strangled. He turned to look at John. "This morning she said she had _something to take care of_. Do you think - " Sherlock cleared his throat. "Do you think she went to get an abortion?"

"I can't say for sure," John said, shaking his head. "But think about it. If she's four months along, it means she didn't find out until after you had…broken up - "

"You can say it, John. After I kicked her out because I was an arsehole."

"Okay, yes. We did all think you were an arsehole but we let it go what with you almost dying from pneumonia and all. It seemed a little heartless to call you an arsehole first thing when you gained consciousness.

"Regardless, she would have missed her period while you were still hanging on for life, so it's likely she would have brushed it off as stress. You were seriously ill for a month and then you were recovering for another month. Maybe she didn't want to spring it on you. _Oh, hello, I'm glad you're not dead, by the way you're going to be a father_."

"Fair point," Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side.

"And another thing. Consider everything she's gone through in her life. She's probably guarded her secret so well because she didn't know what _she_ wanted, much less what you might want. Which brings up the question…do you?"

"What, want it?"

"Yeah."

"Of course I bloody want it!" Sherlock said. "John, you can't honestly think I would want my girl - partner - person, whatever, to get an abortion just because it would be _inconvenient_! I love Ginny. I never thought I would fall in love much less have children, so I'm not going to pretend it's not the biggest fucking shock of my life. This whole day has been a big fucking shock."

Sherlock paused for a moment before saying, "I'm just not sure _she_ wants it."

"Some women, some couples, they don't like to tell anyone until they're sure everything's okay," John said. "And four months is about the time when most obstetricians do the first scan where they measure the baby's growth and check for abnormalities. Maybe she was waiting to get the all clear."

Either she had gone to the clinic to have an abortion or she had gone to the clinic to have a checkup. Sherlock hoped it was the latter. He didn't want her to _take care of something_. She would be tall, their daughter, like her parents. Rosie would have a companion to boss around like Mycroft had bossed him around. They would have to turn Ginny's room into a nursery and Ginny would have to move into his bedroom but he thought perhaps they should keep a single bed in the baby's room anyway because Ginny liked to sleep alone sometimes. And also, they could take turns sleeping in the nursery in the beginning when the baby would only sleep a few hours a night. Would she breastfeed? If she breastfed, they would have to pump, well Ginny would have to pump so that Sherlock could feed the baby and Ginny could rest.

They might have one of those babies who screamed a lot and made everyone cross and then they would fight with each other over whose turn it was to change diapers or fix bottles or whatever other things new parents had to deal with - poo and vomiting and sleepless nights - and they might start to hate each other a little bit. And then Sherlock would get to have his longed for make-up sex. But not until six weeks after.

Caring wasn't an advantage if all you cared about was not getting hurt. If love was Russian Roulette, if loving meant pulling the trigger, knowing a bullet could kill you, there was no question what Sherlock would do.

He would pull the trigger.

Every time.

"We're here, sir," the cabbie said and Sherlock was stumbling out of the cab with John telling him _slow down_ and then they were through the front doors, the lights bright but the hospital oddly hushed in the middle of the night as though people were really only sick during office hours. John guided him to the PALS station (Patient Advice and Liaison Services, _cute acronym_ , Sherlock thought) and someone was saying _Right this way Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson_ and he was taken into a small office and a woman was sliding forms towards him.

"This is the next of kin form, Mr. Holmes. If you could please tick the box next to the term that best describes your relationship with Ms. Logan …and then your contact information there…and then sign and date the bottom."

Sherlock looked at his options for relationships. They were:

**Parent**

**Legal guardian**

**Immediate family**

**Family (other)**

**Spouse**

**Live-in partner**

**Legal representative**

Sherlock read through them and checked 'live-in partner' and just like that, he and Ginny were semi-married. He blew out a huge breath.

"Next, sir, I'll need you to tick the box for Ms. Logan's wishes regarding extraordinary measures."

"Her what?"

"We need to know if Ms. Logan wants any medical staff here at St. Mary's to take extraordinary measures to save her life in the event they're needed."

"Well, _I_ want you to take extraordinary measures!"

"Yes, but some – "

"Sherlock," John said and pulled the form towards him and pointed at one of the lines:

**In the event that the best efforts of medical staff at resuscitation results in patient dependence on life support with no chance for independent recovery, I ____ (patient or patient representative) choose to waive the right to extraordinary measures.**

"Check that one. All it means is if she's brain dead, they're not going to put her on life support."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "But if she can be saved - "

"Nobody's going to let her die if they can help it, Sherlock. I promise you. Look at me. I _promise_ you that I will not let that happen. Nothing will happen to the woman you love or the child you've created while I'm around if I can help it. You made that vow to me and it's my turn now."

"Oh. John. That's - "

"Yeah, yeah, sign the form already."

Sherlock signed.

Several more tedious forms regarding financial responsibility, patient privacy, etc., boring, blah blah blah, and then _finally_ they were finished.

As they walked out of the PALS office, John's phone rang.

"John Watson," he said when he answered the phone and Sherlock looked at him sidelong. There was quite a bit of the soldier in his greeting. John mostly listened before saying _okay_ and then _thanks for letting me know_ and then he turned to Sherlock.

"She's in recovery but Dr. Chen wants to move Ginny to the hyperbaric chamber so we're only going to get fifteen minutes. Dr. Chen will be there; she's the head of surgery here. She can answer any questions we might have.

"They've put Ginny into a medically induced artificial sleep. She's not unconscious, just sleeping, but it looks a lot like she's unconscious. I want you to be prepared for how she looks."

John was saying all this as they were walking from the PALS station through the A&E, again so ominously hushed, through to the surgical wing.

"They're keeping Ginny in a private room near the surgical center. She's going to need at least one more surgery if everything else goes well. She received third degree road burn all over her legs. They'll take skin from her buttocks - "

"Oh, well, she's got plenty of that," Sherlock said and John closed his eyes, trying not to laugh.

"And graft the skin over the damaged parts of her legs. They should be able to grow a lot of the skin they need from just a few strips but it takes time to grow and in the meantime they want to make sure she's not at risk for necrosis before they attempt another surgery, which means her heart is pumping blood and oxygen to all her extremities without artificial help. Are you following me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, waving his hand. "Continue."

"They also need to make sure her heart doesn't become arrhythmic. And the baby's heart as well. They're being as cautious as they can about Ginny's treatment so as not to put the baby at any more risk than necessary but they will, of course, prioritize Ginny's life and health over the baby's _if_ they absolutely have to but I don't see any risk of that."

"Listen, John," Sherlock said, putting out his hand to stop John right before they got to the surgical wing. Sherlock hung his head, looking for all the world like a beaten man. "There's something I need to ask you and I want you to be honest with me. Don't hold back because you're trying to spare my feelings. Can you do that for me?"

"Absolutely, mate. You know that," John said earnestly.

"Tell me…who's Gina?"

John's face was absolutely priceless. Sherlock pitched forward spitting laughter.

"You fucking wanker," John said, shaking his head, his hands on his hips. "You are a fucking - wanker - cock - dickhead."

"Oh, what did you - what did you think I was going to say?" Sherlock asked, tears streaming down his face.

John shook his head, looked off to the side and then back at Sherlock. He shook his head again and smiled.

"Come on, John. Tell me who she is."

"A woman," John said.

"A woman you've been…?"

"Fine. She's a patient, well not a patient of _mine_ , you know, just a patient who came into the surgery. I ran into her when she was at the front desk and we chatted and, uh…you know, I asked her out."

"How long have you been seeing her?"

John's lips twisted up and Sherlock knew, he bloody _knew_ why John didn't want to tell him.

"A month, maybe a little more," John said trying too hard to sound casual.

"No wonder you were so eager to get rid of Ginny!" Sherlock said, cackling.

John scoffed. "I didn't want to get _rid_ of her. I thought it was a good thing for the two of you to get back together and it just so happened that Ginny moved in with you around the same time that Gina and I became - "

"Okay, stop right there," Sherlock gasped, trying to sober up. "I don't want to know any more than that."

"Wanker," John said affectionately, shaking his head.

They were standing in front of the double doors to the surgery wing and John looked at Sherlock and said, "Are you ready?"

Sherlock nodded his head and, as they had so many times in the past, they walked through the doors together to face whatever was on the other side.

~*~

Sherlock was determined only to look at Ginny's legs first. He wasn't going to look at anything else for now. Just her legs. Her legs were covered in huge, blue, soft vinyl padding with cords running out of them. The padding was… _undulating_?

"What are those things on her legs?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, they help keep blood from pooling in her legs, Mr. Holmes. I'm Dr. Chen. I'm head of surgery here and I also oversaw Miss Logan's surgery."

If they were calling her Miss Logan, that meant Mycroft had faxed her papers over. Sherlock looked at the doctor. She was a very slight Asian woman, shorter than John. Her hair was wet and she was wearing a black tracksuit bottoms and a cardigan over a t-shirt. Clearly she had gone straight from Ginny's surgery to the shower and then straight here after.

"Hello, John," Dr. Chen said and kissed John's cheek.

"Thank you for coming, Sally. I know you must be exhausted and eager to get home. How long was the surgery?"

"About thirteen hours," Dr. Chen said.

Sherlock watched the padding move over Ginny's legs in a wave pattern. He listened to the beeping regularity of Ginny's heart monitor. There was another sound underneath. A _thrum thrum thrum_. There was hardly any pause between each sound.

"Oh, you must be shattered," John said.

"You know how it goes. I'm only now beginning to come down from the high."

Sherlock looked at Dr. Chen sharply. Surgery was a lot like solving a case, he supposed. Interesting.

"What time did she go into surgery?" John asked.

"It was only about forty-five minutes after the ambulance was called. I mean, we only waited long enough to gather the surgeons and scrub up. She was put under almost as soon as she got here. Unfortunately, we didn't realize she was pregnant until she was already under. Time was of the essence.

"But don't worry, Mr. Holmes. They both came through the surgery beautifully. No heart arrhythmias. Her kidneys are doing fine; her urine is clear. No fetal distress."

 _Thrum thrum thrum_.

Sherlock was aware that the doctor was talking to John more than to him. He was okay with that. He was still watching Ginny's leg padding flowing back and forth.

_Thrum thrum thrum._

Sherlock finally let his eyes travel up Ginny's body to her face. He was only peripherally aware that John had walked to the head of Ginny's bed opposite him and was holding her hand. A hospital gown was laid over her chest, more for her dignity than necessity. Her left arm was in a cast up to the elbow.

"Her arm was broken as well?" Sherlock asked, not turning around to look at the doctor.

"A minor fracture, Mr. Holmes."

 _Thrum thrum thrum_.

Most of Ginny's face was covered in semi-transparent bandages and underneath Sherlock could see her skin, scraped raw from being dragged along the road, purpled and swollen with bruising.

"Are those third degree burns?" Sherlock asked the doctor without looking at her.

"She has third degree road burn on her face but the damage doesn't go as deep as it does on her legs, so she won't need any skin grafts. We've treated them the same way we would third degree burns. The occlusive bandages you see there keep the skin from drying out and also from infection."

"Oh, my clever girl," he whispered, reaching out his hand to take hers. "You look like shit."

John barked out a laugh on the other side of him. He was holding her hand with the cast on it. "Oh, she's gonna have a terrible scar," John said, touching the bandages, peeking around and under the edges.

"Oh, she'll be fine, John. It's not like she was pretty. Oh, don't look at me like that! _I_ think she's lovely, beautiful even. But my opinion is subjective, influenced by my feelings for her. I was referring to an objective opinion of beauty."

Sherlock bent his head and just barely, the lightest of touches, pressed his forehead against her hair. She smelled like antibacterial spray and iodine but underneath there was the faintest whiff of _Ginny_. He closed his eyes and kissed her cheek.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Dr. Chen said.

"Thank you again, Sally. Can you have them fax her chart over to the surgery every day after shift change? I really want to keep up with her recovery."

"When will she come home?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Dr. Chen for the first time.

"I would say within the month. You'll need to secure ground floor accommodations. She won't be able to do stairs for quite some time."

"What's 'quite some time'?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alighting on Ginny's face once again. "We live in a first floor flat."

"I would say anywhere between three and six months."

"So it's possible she'll have the baby before she's able to climb stairs?" Sherlock asked, worry seeping in.

"We can work all that out later, Sherlock," John said gently. "Just focus on now, right? One day at a time?"

_Thrum thrum thrum._

"What is that damn noise?" Sherlock asked, spinning around.

John turned with him. "It's the fetal monitor, Sherlock," he said, pointing at the screen. It was black and white and there was something…moving…in it.

"Is that her?" Sherlock asked, walking closer, putting his face right in front of the screen. Suddenly the thing turned and Sherlock could see it, plain as day, the figure of a baby. "Oh, that's ghastly!" he said, fascinated. "She's a bit scrawny. I would think Ginny could cook up something a little more sturdy. The woman must weigh ten and a half stone."

"Well, she's got five more months left, Sherlock," John said, laughing. "Look at all that room she has to move around in. She's only the size of a lemon right now."

"How are they getting the picture?" Sherlock asked.

"Internal fetal monitor, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Chen said, startling Sherlock. He thought she had left.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, leaning closer to the screen. The baby moved again and Sherlock jerked back. It really was kind of ghastly, like some foreign object had lodged itself in Ginny's body. Then he registered precisely what the doctor had said and he turned around, alarmed, and asked, "Wait, _internal_ fetal monitor? What does _internal_ mean? Where have you put it?"

"Uh, Sherlock," John said quietly and leaned his head closer to Sherlock's. "It's inserted through her cervix and into her uterus."

"Oh," Sherlock said, once again more fascinated than concerned. "That's positively revolting."

John turned around and nodded at Dr. Chen who said, "If you have any questions, Mr. Holmes, John has my contact information. Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, John. Oh, and congratulations on being a father, Mr. Holmes."

The door swished open and closed and Sherlock thought to himself _congratulations on managing to engage in a completely boring biological process_. But he couldn't help but be slightly amazed at what that boring biological process had wrought. But only _slightly_. Mostly, he felt guilty. He was a scientific genius and yet he had managed to get his girlfriend - partner, that is, _live-in partner_ , he reminded himself, which was the relationship he had chosen on the next of kin form - he managed to get his partner pregnant.

"I can't believe I was stupid enough to get her pregnant," Sherlock said to John, turning away from the fetal monitor screen to Ginny, to whom he whispered, "Sorry about that, _poppet_."

"Poppet?" John asked, thinking _oh, there is a God and he has just smiled on me_. Nothing would spread more laughter than being able to tell everyone Sherlock had called Ginny _poppet_.

"Remember your wedding? The 'telegrams'? One of them made out to Mary said, 'Congratulations, _poppet_ '. I've adopted it for Ginny. More of an insult, really."

"Right. It says a lot about our friendship that I find it charming you would insult her by calling her _poppet_. Oh, and, I'm a little shocked you got her pregnant as well. I didn't think I needed to have a talk with you about the birds and the bees but I guess I was wrong."

Sherlock gave John a dirty look. "Not that it's any of your business, but this is our first relationship. It's rather more…intense…in the beginning." Sherlock said, clearly uncomfortable discussing it but wanting to defend himself. "She had never - you know - either, and we probably, well clearly - didn't… _weren't_ the most - "

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm getting a very clear picture. I do recall Mrs. Hudson saying the two of you went at it day and night."

Sherlock's face flushed pink and he rolled his eyes. "Clearly, nobody in our social circle has anything to do but gossip about my relationship with Ginny."

"Yes, and I've explained that obsession to you before. It's because you've never had a girlfriend - "

"Partner."

" - partner before and the idea of Sherlock Holmes getting a leg over - "

"Oh, I rue the day I ever befriended you," Sherlock said, sighing.

" - is possibly the most interesting thing to happen to you in…well, _ever_."

Suddenly Ginny's face grimaced slightly before settling back into the more peaceful mien she'd had all along.

"See, even Ginny is greatly annoyed at hearing you discuss our relationship in such a crude way," Sherlock said and the two of them laughed.

Sherlock turned back around to look at the fetal monitor screen and had to admit to himself that it was pretty wondrous to see something that he and Ginny had created together, even if it was achieved because of stupidity, lack of discipline, and simple biology.

"Was it like this when you and Mary had Rosie?" Sherlock asked.

"You mean the tears?"

"What tears?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded at him and Sherlock wiped his face with his finger. "Oh."

"Yeah, mate," John said and slapped Sherlock on the back hard enough that he stumbled. "It was exactly like that."


	8. The Weather Forecast Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is convinced that whoever hit Ginny is connected to both Ginny's alleged murder of her mother as well as the child sex ring she was a victim of. There's a lead on the case but he and John luck out. When Sherlock goes to see Ginny in the hospital, it doesn't go as planned.

"It wasn't an accident," Sherlock said, when he and John were riding back to the flat after seeing Ginny.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, rubbing his face.

It was almost two in the morning and John was exhausted.

"Listen, why don’t you and Rosie stay at the flat tonight and that way you don't have to wake her up and take her home. I'll sleep in Ginny's room and you can have mine."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm absolutely shattered," John said. "I was going to ask, actually. If we could stay, that is. But you were saying? About Ginny's accident?"

"It _wasn't_ an accident. I think whoever hit her was trying to kill her."

"Who would want to kill her? And why?"

"I think Ginny and her mother, Libby Lynch, knew who the father of Georgia's baby was. At least they knew enough that if they got together and compared their information they would be able to point him out.

"He's linked to Jessica Sanchez somehow because a little less than a month ago, I called Jessica Sanchez and asked who had bribed her. It didn't go very well, that call. I think I rather brought the whole case to a screeching halt. Anyway, whoever _really_ killed Libby Lynch is linked somehow with Jessica Sanchez and my call gave away Ginny's location. All he had to do was find out who Sherlock Holmes was and then stake out my flat and wait for me to lead him to Ginny.

"This is _good_ , John, this is _very_ good! He's shown himself, now, and all I have to do is find him."

"What if Ginny's accident really _is_ just a hit and run?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not."

"But what if it _is_ , Sherlock?

"It's not but if it _is_ , then I'll…I don't know. I know what my responsibilities are, John. I'm not avoiding anything, if that's what you were suggesting."

"I'm sorry, mate. It's just habit after all these years, you know. Trying to keep you human."

"You've done a bang-up job, John, I promise. I'm so human I've got a domestic partner and a baby on the way and someone has just tried to kill both of them. I'm going to catch him, this would be killer and I'm going to prove that Ginny is innocent and I'm going to dismantle this sex slave ring that tortured Ginny and murdered her sister, and I'm going to see every one of _those_ bastards in jail, too."

John looked at him and sighed, partially intimidated by Sherlock's ferocity but mostly swelling with pride once again.

"You find the killers and child rapists and I'll take care of Ginny and the baby. But promise me you will come to see her in hospital when she wakes up."

"I make no promises," Sherlock said, rubbing the sides of his fingers over his lips, his face hooded and grim. "I don't know how Jessica Sanchez connects to whoever tried to kill Ginny but however she's connected to him, I don't think she knows that this man was a part of the same sex ring that she was a victim of. Whoever he is, she trusts him and she depends on his guidance.

"Something happened to Jessica Sanchez three years ago that brought up the memories of her abuse. She said something to this man that made him afraid Ginny and Libby Lynch could identify him as Georgia's killer but he would've needed a way to get rid of both of them at the same time without drawing any attention to himself. What better way than to get Libby Lynch out of prison and then get Ginny Lynch to kill her. Libby would be dead, Ginny would be tucked away in prison and Jessica's recantation would turn Ginny into a villain. Nobody would believe her if she tried to identify him by that point. But Ginny didn't go to prison. She ran."

"He's found her now, John." Sherlock's face paled and he got out his phone and rang Lestrade.

"Greg, I need you to put an officer both inside and outside of Ginny's hospital room…I don't care about her privacy. I'll vouch for anything you need; I'm her next of kin. But putting a man on the outside isn't going to stop someone disguised as a doctor or nurse from getting in and hurting her…because if there's two of them and one of them gets compromised at least there's backup!...Thank you. Oh, and let me know if you find any witnesses."

Sherlock turned to John and opened his mouth but John cut him off.

"Sherlock," John said, his eyes at half-mast. "I am absolutely dedicated to helping you with this. But I've got to have at least four hours of sleep and then I've got to get Rosie ready and dropped off at nursery school.

"I think you should get a few hours' sleep and something to eat as well. I think Ginny would be very cross with me if she found out I'd let you work yourself into an early grave a second time."

The cab pulled up outside of the Baker Street flat and the two men got out and trudged up the stairs. John had wrapped up the sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had brought up – when was it…yesterday? God, it felt like ages but it had only been a few hours.

"Sit down and eat a sandwich and I'll make tea," John said when they walked in. He went into the kitchen to get started, feeling like he was going to collapse.

"I'll eat when I've solved the case," Sherlock said absentmindedly. He was standing at the desk in the sitting room, sorting through papers.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, without looking back.

"I made a vow to care for your wife and child. That means caring for you, whether you want me to or not. If you get sick again or, God forbid, _die_ then I will have failed in my vow. So sit down and eat a fucking sandwich."

Sherlock turned around and looked at John in astonishment, a paper held in each hand. "She's not my wife, John," he said.

"I know that but I'm so tired I couldn't remember the other word."

"You sound drunk."

"Yeah. Tired. Same thing when you're my age," John said. "Sit! Sandwich!"

Sherlock sat and John thrust the plate of sandwiches in his hands.

"I wouldn't have accepted your vow if I had known you were going to play nursemaid to me," Sherlock grumbled, but he dutifully peeled away the plastic cling wrap off of the sandwiches and took two butter and cheese. Suddenly, he was starving. He had forgotten for a while that he wasn't young enough anymore to subsume his physical needs.

When John brought him a cup of tea, he had torn his way through the two butter and cheese and was working on a cucumber sandwich. He took the proffered cup of tea without comment. John sat in Ginny's chair and Sherlock passed him the plate of sandwiches. John chose two and then set the plate on the floor next to Ginny's chair.

"It's funny, but I thought of that chair as yours long after you and Mary had made your own home. Even after the flat was blown up and I'd had to replace your chair, I still thought of it as yours.

"Now, when I look at it, I think of it as Ginny's chair."

John smiled over his cup of tea. "I'm glad you have someone to sit in this chair again, Sherlock. You've never been meant to be alone. Some people with your brilliance could live their lives quite happily alone so long as they could work to their heart's content. But not you, Sherlock, and not me.

"You and I have limped along these last few years, haven't we? I don't know why Rosie and I never moved in here after – well, after Mary and Sherrinford. I think we were just tired, you know? There just wasn't any energy left in our lives for change."

"Did you think about it?" Sherlock asked.

"About what?"

"About moving in here. After Sherrinford, after the flat had been put back together. Did you think about moving in here?"

"I did, yes," John said and nodded. "But like I said, the idea of another change was too overwhelming. And there's another thing. I think it would have hurt us in the long run."

He cleared his throat and looked into the fireplace. The fire had died down ages ago.

"Here, I'm going to build that up again. It's cold in here," John said and set to adding wood and kindling, building it up until it was cheery but not over powerful. He sat back down.

"Hurt us, John?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at Sherlock and said, "You and I would've spent the rest of our lives in this flat, raising Rosie, and solving crime but when she was grown and gone off on her own, we would be old men. _Lonely_ old men. Having each other is not the same as having a girlfriend or a wife or a – live in partner, was it? It's not the same at all." He took a sip of his tea. "And then we would've had to put ads in the _mature_ section of the lonely hearts, eh?"

John laughed and Sherlock scowled.

" _You_ might have. I wouldn't have noticed. I was perfectly content being alone until Ginny came along."

"No, you weren't," John said, smiling knowingly at Sherlock over his cup of tea. "If you were happy being lonely, you wouldn't have hired an assistant, now would you?"

"I only hired an assistant because _you_ were busy with your so-called _job_ and that _parenting_ nonsense," he said, his face holding a tired smile.

"Well, the important thing is someone's sitting in this chair again. And sleeping in your bed _and_ carrying your child. You don't go half in, do you?"

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock said and glowered at the fire.

~*~

**SH: Lestrade found a witness to Ginny's car accident who said there was a rental tag on the back of the car. I'm going to go catch a killer. Want to come? Could be dangerous.**

"Why are you texting me, Sherlock? I'm in the kitchen," John said the next day, making tea for the second time that morning.

**SH: I miss Ginny. You're an acceptable substitute.**

"You text Ginny when she's in the other room?"

**SH: No, I just shout her name but you're a guest so I'm trying to be polite. Are you in or what?**

John gave in to Sherlock's whimsy and tapped out his response on his mobile.

**JW: You have to ask?**

~*~

The night before, after they were back at the flat and Sherlock had made sure John was settled, he had walked up the back stairs to Ginny's room where he lay down, giving into the urge, this time, to press his face into her pillow and breathe in her scent. He never would've thought himself so sentimental, but of course he had never thought himself likely to be in the position to be sentimental.

God, and being a father? He wanted to be happy about it, and he was - he really was in a weird, biologically motivated, _I'm so manly my sperm made a baby_ kind of way. But at the forefront of his mind was a strange jealousy; if Ginny had a baby then she wouldn't be able to run around and solve crimes with him. She would be spending all her time with the baby. So now John had a baby, well, a toddler, and Ginny would soon have a baby which meant Sherlock would have to find a new partner in crime-solving.

Or he could get Ginny to watch _both_ babies - one baby and one toddler - and he and _John_ could run around and solve crimes together! But that was very sexist, to assume that Ginny would be the one to take care of the children. Maybe John would stay home and take care of both children and then he and Ginny could - or maybe they could take turns or -

"Argh!" Sherlock had shouted into his pillow.

The whole thing was, as Lestrade would say _a huge cockup._

Why did people have children? Honestly, why did they let themselves be weighed down by someone who was completely dependent on their parents for their needs; who was inherently selfish and would take and take until they were old enough to live on their own and then would _still_ probably take and then in the end might turn out to be a really uninteresting person? Then one would have to look back and see where one went wrong and feel guilty that you had brought forth someone into the world who had added nothing of value whatsoever to the overall struggle of mankind towards enlightenment!

He brought it up with John the next day in the cab on the way to checking out the locations of the rental car agency the witness had identified.

"I think in the last sixty or so years, most people have babies for the same reason you and Ginny have," John said, looking over the list of locations.

"You mean by carelessness?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes, exactly," John said, looking up. "Birth control fails or they fail to use birth control and the next thing you know, the woman is pregnant and then you have the choice whether to keep it or not. Well, they haven't _always_ had the choice, but at least they do now."

"When you say _they_ you actually mean women."

"Yes, that's actually what I mean."

"If she had told me sooner, John, I think I would have wanted her to get an abortion," Sherlock said. He didn't want to admit something like that, knowing how it made him look, but if you couldn't confess things like that to your best mate, who did you confess them to?

"I imagine so," John said, without looking at Sherlock, busying himself with the papers in his hand. A list of rental agencies, and the witness statement. "I was angry with you for a while when you told us Mary was pregnant."

"What?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded.

"Well, once everyone knows, you can't really run off and get rid of it, can you?" John said, still not looking at Sherlock.

"You didn't want a child," Sherlock said, the knowledge dawning cold and sharp.

"No. Terrible, isn't it? Mary wanted one so badly but I wasn't ready. I thought we were – I thought she was taking birth control. She must've stopped without telling me."

The two of them were silent for a moment.

"But you did – I mean, in the hospital you said – you did _want_ her, didn't you?"

"As soon as I heard her heartbeat for the first time," John said and then he was looking at Sherlock and smiling. "I'm just saying that I understand that your first instinct would've been to tell her to get an abortion. Maybe that was _her_ first instinct, too, especially as you were so sick at the time.

"I can't help thinking what a terrible friend I am, not to have noticed. Poor girl. You know, the first trimester is the hardest physically. Oh, don't get me wrong. At the end when they're carrying around a soccer ball sized rock in their uterus, it's tough. But the first trimester a woman's breasts are sore, she's tired all the time, their uterus is stretching itself, which can cause terrible cramps - "

"Please stop. I don't think I can – I realize that I'm not squeamish. Obviously, or I would never have been able to be in this line of work. But I'm – the whole idea of the birth and – " Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Let's just go catch her would-be murderer."

John knitted his fingers together in his lap and tried not to smile. "You do know, right, that you will have to deal with all that stuff at some point? There's going to be the birth and then after it's - "

"I was hoping you could do all that," Sherlock said, looking out his window to avoid John's eyes.

"Sherlock. You're - you want _me_ to attend the birth of your daughter in your place?"

"Yeah, I was - you know, you're a doctor. So."

"No. No, Sherlock, you _have_ to be there."

"Why?"

"Look, mate. It is disgusting. There's blood and fluids and - "

"You are failing to convince me of the importance of my - "

"Okay, fine. My point is that no matter how revolted you are, the minute you hold your daughter in your arms, none of it will matter. You're a scientist so you very well know that biology is at work here and biology is very hard to fight against."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I did an admirable job for most of my life."

"Yes, and then you stopped doing an admirable job and now you're stuck down in the shit like the rest of us.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, however grudgingly.

"Take everything you think you know about love and throw it out the window. What you feel for Ginny? It's nothing compared to what you will feel for that tiny girl when you hold her for the first time. It's – you'll never be the same again. Your entire life will center on that child. You'll discover things about yourself that you are very ashamed of and you will discover things about yourself that you never thought were possible. You love her already. I could see it in your eyes."

Sherlock turned back to the window and said nothing for a while. "Do I really have to be in the room, though, for all this magical transformative love to take place? Can't someone just bring her out to me?"

"Oh, you – " John said and shook his head while Sherlock's deep laugh rumbled past him.

"Of course I'll be there, John. I was being funny. How was it?"

"Terrible."

"See? That's why I try to avoid it."

~*~

They had split the list in half so they could cover twice as much ground apart as they would together. John had to pick Rosie up from nursery at three and then he would have to go home. He promised to text Sherlock if he found anything.

Sherlock's cab pulled up outside the first location on the list. Inside, the rental agency was relatively empty considering the time of year. Sherlock would have expected Christmas to be a big car rental season, just like it was everywhere else. But empty was good for him. The less people he had to deal with, the faster this would go; he had four more places to hit before he was done.

"I need to speak to someone who can give me a list of rentals that were returned damaged or not returned at all from anytime this week," Sherlock said at the counter.

"Uh, hello," the girl behind the counter said. "I don't - I'm not sure - "

"Get your manager out here at once," Sherlock said and turned away to wait.

"My name is Margaret and I'm the manager here," an older woman said a few minutes later. "What can I help you with?"

She was very tall and striking and Sherlock knew immediately that he would not be able to intimidate her. Damn. He was hoping he wouldn't have to get Lestrade around to bully people into it.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, hoping that maybe his celebrity status would give him an in. "There was an attempted murder yesterday that involved one of your rental vehicles. I need a list of all cars that were rented this week and returned either damaged or not returned at all or any other irregularities involving cars rented recently."

"I'm afraid I can't give you that information without a warrant, Mr. Holmes," Margaret said and Sherlock growled impatiently.

"Fine. Give me a few minutes. Don't go anywhere," Sherlock added when the manager was about to walk away.

"Please wait over there, sir," Margaret said. "I don't want customers lining up behind you."

Sherlock took out his phone.

**SH: I need a warrant for all the rental agencies that the car that hit Ginny came from.**

**GL: I told you to wait for me!**

**SH: The mother of my child is in a coma in hospital because of this bastard! Please! Help me!**

Sherlock smirked to him. Nothing like a little sentiment thrown in to get people acting quickly.

**GL: You're having a baby?**

**SH: Technically, Ginny will be having the baby and not for another five months but yes. So hurry!**

**GL: You're not just saying this so I'll hurry up, are you?**

**SH: That is EXACTLY why I'm saying it! So hurry up!**

**GL: So she's not really pregnant?**

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sherlock muttered under his breath. It was one of the more vulgar phrases he had picked up from Ginny who did a fairly good job of not saying it when she was around him because she knew how he felt about vulgarity (completely unnecessary and indicative of an unimaginative mind) but he had begun to see why one might feel the need to use it especially when someone else was being particularly _thick_.

**SH: YES, she's pregnant, but I wouldn't have told you if I didn't need you to HURRY UP!!**

**GL: Right. Okay. Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry.**

**SH: I'm not sure "sorry" is what most people say when they find out someone is having a baby but I'll take it.**

**GL: I meant sorry Ginny got hit when she was pregnant!**

**SH: Oh, does that make it more tragic? I'll have to keep that in mind. HURRY UP!!! Oh, and make it a global warrant as John and I are heading around to each branch of this rental agency so we need it to go out to all of them.**

Next Sherlock texted John.

**SH: I doubt you'll get any information out of the car rental agencies until they receive the warrant from Greg. I told him to hurry but you know how slow these things go.**

**JW: I was just about to text you about that very issue. But the manager at the first store I went to said no cars had been returned damaged nor were there any overdue rentals. That was all she could tell me.**

**SH: Very clever, John. I didn't think to ask if any cars fit that description.**

**JW: I'm sure you didn't. I'm sure you just went up and demanded a list of names.**

**SH: Shut up.**

Sherlock went back up to the counter and asked again for Margaret the Manager. When she came out a minute later, she looked very put out which Sherlock knew was a bad sign as it usually meant someone would be even _more_ difficult about giving out information.

"DCI Lestrade from Scotland Yard is getting a warrant as we speak but until he's able to fax that over, I would appreciate it if you could tell me _if_ there were any rentals returned either yesterday or today that were damaged _or_ if there were any rentals that were due yesterday or today that weren't returned at all. You don't have to give me any of the personal information of the people who rented them."

"Give me a moment, Mr. Holmes, " Margaret the Manager said, making her among the small percentage of people who would willingly give out information even when they were looking Very Put Out.

She came out ten minutes later and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but all the cars due yesterday and today have been returned and in the same condition they left the lot."

Sherlock tapped the counter twice and then said, "If any cars do fit those two profiles or if there's any other irregularities surrounding a car rental or return, please let me or DCI Lestrade know immediately. Keep the warrant on file as it should apply for at least another week."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock was out the door when Margaret the Manager called out, "I _do_ hope you find the person you're looking for."

"Me, too," Sherlock muttered and hailed a cab to try the next place.

~*~

At the end of the day, long after John had picked Rosie up from nursery and gone home, Sherlock walked into the dark flat and slumped in his chair without turning any lights on. He put his head in his hand and stared into the dark.

There had been no progress whatsoever. Every car that had been due back over the previous forty-eight hours had been returned and all in similar condition as they had been when they left the lot. The only useful information they had received was that their longest rental contracts for individuals (as opposed to groups or businesses) was six weeks.

That meant Ginny's would-be killer could have rented his car anytime within the last six weeks or, even _worse_ , that he had rented the car only recently and still had almost six weeks left before the car would be considered missing or returned damaged.

"He's going to try again," Sherlock said out loud to his empty flat.

~*~

The next day was a Saturday. Sherlock went around to all the Central London Auto Rentals locations again and asked the same question: were any vehicles not returned or returned damaged? He had a little more information this time. It was a two door hatchback, silver-grey, but no – nobody had failed to return a silver-grey hatchback or returned it damaged.

**JW: She's awake. I just got here. Will you come?**

**SH: No. Tell her I'm trying to catch her would-be murderer. She understands priorities.**

**JW: I figured as much but it doesn't hurt to ask. If she asks for you, will you come?**

**SH: When I'm done, yes.**

~*~

John gave his credentials at the front desk. Dr. Chen had left him a pass, which he slipped around his neck as he pulled out his mobile to text Sherlock. He knew it was a lost cause, but he had to try.

He pushed through the doors to the surgery wing, showing his pass to the nurse's station. He was met at the door to Ginny's room by a police officer who asked for his identification, and then checked it against a list.

"Okay, Dr. Watson, you can go in," he said.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Sgt. Mark, sir."

"Nice to meet you, Sgt. Mark. I know it's a drag having to stand here for eight hours but I appreciate it and I know Sherlock does, too."

Sgt. Mark preened under John's praise and John smiled as he walked in the door. There was an officer on the inside, too, who also checked his identification against a list and John told him (Sgt. Spencer) the same thing.

Ginny's eyes were closed; the steady beep of the heart monitor and underneath that, the _thrum thrum thrum_ of the fetal monitor made John smile. He couldn't wrap his head around it – Sherlock with a _baby_ on the way. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were going to be absolutely beside themselves with joy. He was pretty sure they had given up hope of any grandchildren.

John touched Ginny's arm gently and she opened her eyes with difficulty.

"John," she said, her voice a croaking whisper.

"Hi, there," John said. "I'm sure they've done a great job of taking care of you here but will you let me do a quick check?"

Her eyes drifted closed and back open again. She must've been on a considerable amount of morphine.

"Too mush rugs," she slurred.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked, leaning closer to her mouth. She reached for his wrist and gripped it with surprising strength.

"Less shrugs," she said.

"Shrugs?" John asked.

Ginny pointed at her IV bags.

"Oh!" John said. "Too many drugs?"

She nodded.

"Well, love, they've got to – " He stopped talking when she shook her head.

"Pen shrugs," she said.

"Pain drugs?" John clarified.

She smiled and nodded.

"Too much pain medication?"

She smiled and nodded again.

"Give me about ten minutes, okay?"

She smiled and nodded again.

By the time John tracked down the doctor and he wrote the new orders and the nurse went in with John to adjust the morphine bag, almost an hour had elapsed.

"Sorry it took so long," he said when he was back in her hospital room but she just smiled at him and reached out her hand. He clasped it in his.

"There you go Mrs. Holmes," the nurse said, patting Ginny on the arm. "That should take away some of your grogginess."

"It's, uh, Ms. Logan, actually," John said.

"Oh, right," the nurse said, coloring slightly. "I'm sorry. You've made quite the stir in the hospital, m'dear. All the girls are jelly. The woman who finally snagged The Virgin!"

"Thank you, nurse!" John said quickly. "You can go now."

"Right. Sorry, Dr. Watson," she said, blushing fiercely.

Once the door was closed, John turned to the sergeant.

"Sgt. Spencer, I need you to step out for about ten minutes. Ms. Logan and I need to go over a few things and she requires privacy."

"Of course, Dr. Watson, but please don't allow anyone else in here except myself or the sergeant outside unless it's an emergency."

"Of course, Sgt. Spencer," John said and nodded at him.

When the door closed, John turned to Ginny and took her hand

"Ginny," he said gently, squeezing her hand to let her know that he was here to support her no matter what. "About the baby. Were you there to – okay. I'm just going to do what Sherlock would. Were you there to have an abortion?"

Ginny lifted her eyebrows a little and then shook her head. "I wen to havah scan."

"That's what I told Sherlock, but we wanted to make sure. So I guess my next question – did you plan – you were going to tell him, right?"

She nodded. Her eyes were already starting to clear. "How izzit?"

"She's doing great. Tough like her mother," he said, grinning.

"A girl?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

"Yep."

"Izzy mad?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting again.

"I wouldn't say mad," John said, biting his lips to keep from laughing. "I would say shocked, overwhelmed, and, actually – he looked quite amazed when he got a look at the fetal monitor screen."

John moved the IV cart slightly and then pushed back Ginny's own monitor to expose the fetal monitor screen. The baby was still for a minute and then moved a little and Ginny laughed. It was a drunk laugh but she laughed nonetheless.

"I was gonna tell him after scan."

"I'm sorry he's not here," John said.

Her face was wry as she waved her hand dismissively. "Didn't expect him. Knew he was prolly on the case."

"He thinks the person who hit you was trying to kill you."

Ginny closed her eyes and then nodded.

"You think he was trying to hit you, too?"

"Too deliberate," she said, nodding.

The door to Ginny's room opened and then closed and John looked back to see Sherlock pulling off his scarf and shedding his coat, his face pink from the cold.

"You are trouble," Sherlock said, unsmiling, but she was smiling at him, her eyebrows raised. Sherlock laid his scarf and coat over the back of the chair on the other side of her bed. He pulled it up and sat down and the way they looked at each other, like they were making sure they weren't dreaming made John feel like an intruder.

"I'll be outside if you need me," John said and Ginny turned to him, smiled and squeezed his hand.

"Thank you," she said.

He bent to kiss her forehead. "Of course," he said and left them to their privacy.

~*~

 "Were you going to tell me?" Sherlock asked, only barely aware that John had left.

"Yes," she said.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"How convenient then that you got run over by a car!" he said, surprised to find that he was angry after all.

She looked away from him, towards the fetal monitor screen that showed the baby.

"Did you get a look at the person driving the car?" he asked brusquely.

She shook her head, still not looking at him.

"Nothing? Did you forget everything I taught you? Is pregnancy making you stupid?"

Ginny refused to look at him.

"I'm not going to turn into – "

"Have you made any headway on the case?" she asked, her face still turned away.

"Yes, actually. Whoever hit you was doing it on purpose and – "

"I know," she said.

"Well if you _know_ everything then can you please enlighten me?"

"I didn't know I was pregnant until after you were sick. I think it happened – "

"I don't care about that," Sherlock said, getting up from the chair. "If you remember anything, text me."

He grabbed his coat and his scarf and walked out. He didn't see John until he grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"John. Will you check on her?" Sherlock asked, doubling up his scarf and wrapping it around his neck, pulling the ends through the fold. He looked away from John while pulling on his coat. "Not just a physical checkup, although I would like you to do that, too. I wasn't – I didn't know what to say and she wouldn't look at me."

"Yeah, of course," John said, his eyes searching Sherlock's face. "Of course I will."

"I'm heading to Baker Street. If you can, will you join me there?"

"For what?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet while he pulled his gloves out of his coat. "I don't know what to say to her," he repeated and then he was gone.

~*~

In the cab on the way home, Sherlock laid his head against the cold glass of the window and gritted his teeth, feeling exhausted and anxious at the same time.

There had been so much he had wanted to say to Ginny but then when he had seen her, he had looked in her face and it had screamed _liar liar liar liar liar_. Just like with Mary all those years ago. Ginny was a liar.

She lied about being a murderer and when he had finally seen her again, she had walked into the flat with her head held high, ready to take whatever he was going to dish out but willing to do it for the case.

Yet, when her lie about being pregnant had been discovered, she had refused to look at him.

She was hiding something else. He knew it.

Why did she _have_ to lie?

Either there was something wrong with him – he was untrustworthy or maybe just unworthy.

Or there was something wrong with her that made her unable to completely trust him.

Either way, it would ruin their relationship. He had seen what it had done to John and Mary. She had built their relationship on lies. Every time they had uncovered more, Sherlock had been convinced that John wouldn't forgive her so Sherlock had always encouraged John to forgive her. He had made a vow and for once in his life he had believed that love would overcome even those terrible secrets and the terrible lies.

But there were always more lies. Always more secrets. Always more running away.

When she took a bullet for Sherlock, Mary had set herself up as the hero and Sherlock up as the villain and it didn't matter that she had done it out of love for John. She had destroyed so much more than she would have if she had just let Sherlock die. He had wanted to die after that. John had wanted him to die.

Nothing had ever been the same after that. It had taken them three years to make real peace with each other but by then, they had carried on separate lives. It was the worst kind of loss because to mourn what was lost meant ignoring what you had. So you made do and pretended the rest of it didn't matter.

Sherlock and John were finally, only the past year, becoming what they had been to each other before The Fall, before the aquarium, before the morgue, before Sherrinford. And Sherlock had found love, too. He was on the edge of having it all – his best friend, a woman he loved, a child.

If there was nothing to hide, then why had she lied?

Either there was something wrong with him – or there was something wrong with her.

It would tear them apart either way and he didn't know how to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be cutting up the last two chapters into smaller chunks so that I can post more frequently. I thought these last two chapters would be quick to wrap up but two things happened: there was more writing involved than I had expected and I've been writing Johnlock smut because I'm a slut for smut. ;)
> 
> Please, please comment. I'm afraid this WIP will linger in WIP hell if I don't hear from you guys and it's a really good story. (I think.)
> 
> Love,  
> Lampy


	9. The Weather Forecast Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes back to visit Ginny in the hospital and proves he's got a heart after all even though it might be a bit tough around the edges. He also - finally! - catches a break in Ginny's case.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've started posting this in smaller chapters, I hope I'll be able to post something daily or at least every two days. I have another fic series that I'm writing that I have to keep up with as well so I'll do my best! I appreciate so much those of you who have read and commented and given me the motivation to see this through to the end as I really like this story. I've greatly enjoyed exploring Sherlock's personality in this fic.  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________  
> Thank you to FourCornersHolmes for being my beta even though all she did was correct one grammar error (or so she says). I love you my lovely!  
> _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Sherlock?" John asked, coming into the flat. Sherlock was sitting in the dark, staring into the cold fireplace and looking miserable.

"What happened?" John asked. "It's freezing in here. Can I start a fire?"

Sherlock gestured at the fireplace: _I don't care_.

"In the end, with Mary, before she died – was it," Sherlock stopped and ran his hands roughly over his face. "I know you loved her but did you feel like you would still love her no matter how many times she lied?"

"Of course I did, Sherlock. What's this about?" John asked, lighting the kindling and sticking the bellows underneath the wood to pump up the flames.

"She wouldn't look at me. She's hiding something, I know she is."

"Sherlock," John said, sitting down in Ginny's chair. "She's not hiding anything. Look there's –"

"Then why wouldn't she look at me?" Sherlock interrupted, standing up and walking over to the couch before laying down and covering his eyes with one arm.

"Because you were an arsehole and she was afraid if she looked at you she would want to punch you?"

"I'm an arsehole all the time and she's never wanted to punch me!"

"She's under a tremendous amount of physical and emotional stress. The first thing she said to me yesterday was that she was on too many pain meds. She's got two more surgeries coming up and she's worried about how that will affect the baby. The orthopedic surgeon said there was a high probability that even after the surgeries and physical therapy that she would need a brace or a cane to walk."

"What?" Sherlock asked, sitting up, feeling panic blooming in his chest. "When did this happen? And why do you know so much about it?"

"She asked me to come to the hospital to be there when the surgical team outlined her recovery plan."

"Why did she call _you_?" Sherlock asked, hating the jealousy that kept creeping into his breast. His jealousy wasn't sexually motivated; John was not a competition for his romantic relationship with Ginny. "I should've been there for something that important! She wouldn't even look me in the eye last night."

"I'm a doctor and the closest thing she has to a best friend. She wanted my medical opinion as well as my support," John said, exasperated.

"And I couldn't have offered her support?" Sherlock said sullenly.

"Well, she's not certain you're interested in supporting her is she, Sherlock?" John snapped.

"I tried to talk – "

"No, Sherlock. You didn't. You went in there and you asked her if she could give you any info on the case and then you left. Look, if you called me here so that I could tell you it was okay that you didn't make an effort to reassure her last night, then let me make my position clear. It was _not_ okay." John grabbed his coat off of the couch and shrugged it on. "The least you can do is go sit with her and just hold her bloody hand, Sherlock."

~*~

The next day Sherlock texted Lestrade only to be told there was still no news. Sherlock asked for the contact information for the witness and Lestrade grudgingly passed it out. _Don't say you are with New Scotland Yard, Sherlock, or I will get drummed out of the force and there'll be nobody to give you work._ Sherlock went around to all the rental places again. No news.

He made two more stops and then he went to the hospital.

~*~

"Sir, you can't go in there," the officer standing outside the door said.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. That's my... _domestic partner_ in there. I bloody well _can_ go in there and I _will_ go in there."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but Lestrade's orders. I have to check your identification against the list and I'll also need to search your carrier bag."

Sherlock thrust the bag at the officer and pulled his identification card out of his wallet, which he also thrust at the officer.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the officer said after he had checked it against his list and searched through the bag, handing everything back. "The officer on duty inside Ms. Logan's room will also need to go through the same procedure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped in. Ginny turned towards him. Her hair was limp and oily. The swelling on her face had gone down a bit, but the bruises seemed even worse without the swelling. They'd changed from purple to dark red. The left side of her face was still covered in the occlusive bandages for the road burn she'd sustained.

She gave him a nervous smile. He walked towards her but the other officer stopped him. Without looking at him, Sherlock thrust the bag and his ID into his hands and kept walking.

"Sir!"

"It's okay, Phil," Ginny said, her voice hoarse. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's my – employer."

"Employer?" Sherlock asked, stung by her description. "I'm more than your employer."

"Are you?" she asked, but there was no sarcasm in her voice. If Sherlock had to guess he would say she sounded – confused. Perhaps worried?

" _I_ thought so. Unless there's something you're not telling me?" he asked, taking off his gloves and his scarf and his coat and laying them all neatly over the chair next to the bed. He sat down. It was quite a comfortable chair for a visitor.

"If _Phil_ is quite done with my bag and ID, may I have them back?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. We're only trying – "

"Yes, yes. I'm the one who asked Lestrade to put two officers on duty. You can go wait outside with the other officer now. I'll be here for forty-five minutes," Sherlock said.

"Thank you, Phil," Ginny said, looking up and smiling her beautiful smile at him, or at least as much of it as she could with the bandages. Phil handed Sherlock his bag and identification.

Sherlock looked at Phil, who was beaming back. My God, she had an effect on people. He wished she would have less of an effect on other men, though. Jealousy was a decidedly uncomfortable emotion. It took up too much space in his brain and achieved nothing whatsoever.

"Why do men always like you, Ginny?" Sherlock blurted out.

She looked at him, startled.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it seems like every man you meet develops at least some degree of sexual attraction to you," he said, trying to sound curious and not - annoyed.

"He was smiling at me," she said, staring at Sherlock in confusion.

"He wasn't just smiling. His face was radiant!"

"It's a biologically induced social cue. One human smiles, the other human smiles back. The bigger you smile, the more friendly you're perceived to be which triggers the other human to smile bigger to assure you that they are as friendly as you. This is basic stuff, Holmes. You should know this. And please do not tell me you're jealous of Phil."

"I'm not jealous of anyone," Sherlock scoffed. "I just don't understand why men find you attractive."

Ginny's entire torso shook with laughter and she kept looking at him and shaking her head in between grimacing in pain.

"Oh, baby, you are so adorable," she said and smiled sweetly at him.

"You confuse me when you do that," he said, his brow furrowed. "All I did was state a fact. Why is it funny? Why does it make me seem adorable? Also, adorable is very offensive. And don't call me baby. It's – ugh."

"I'm sorry. It just came out. You wouldn't believe the things I want to call you all the time that I rein in."

"Like asshole?" he asked, saying it with an American accent.

"No!" Ginny said indignantly. "Like _honey_ and _baby_ and _sweetheart_. I don't say those things out of respect to you. But I'm so high on morphine you'll have to forgive the slips."

"Very well," he said. "I'll let it slide since you're under the influence of a narcotic."

"You're funny," she said.

"Not purposefully," he said, rooting around in the carrier bag for the things he had brought. When he lifted his head, she was smiling at him, her  _knowing_ smile, the one she only used with him. A quiver of anxiety speared his chest and impulsively he said, "I'm glad you're not dead. It was very unpleasant, worrying about you. I didn't like it at all."

She let out a heavy sigh and he saw her relax, which was ironic considering he hadn't known she was tense. Her voice never gave it away.

"Nobody likes it, Holmes," she said. "I didn't like it when I was worrying about you."

"Why are you calling me Holmes again?"

"Morphine."

"I forgot. Right. So. Here, I brought you a few of those terrible books you like to read," he said pulling them out and showing her before stacking them on the table by her bed. He scoffed, "Detective stories. Really, Ginny. You wound me. And, erm…I thought – well, here," he said, pulling the paint and wallpaper swatches he'd gotten from Wickes and laying them on the bed next to her hand.

"What are these?" she asked, picking one up. "Is this – wallpaper?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, for the, erm - well, you know – for the nursery. Obviously."

"Obviously?" she asked.

He met her eyes and said again, "Obviously."

"So you're – you want me to live with you, like, permanently?"

"Again, Virginia, _obviously_. I wouldn't have brought you wallpaper samples if I didn't expect you to live with me permanently. I think pregnancy _is_ making you stupid."

He was alarmed to see tears welling in her eyes.

"For God's sake, don't cry, Virginia. It's so tedious," he said, rolling his eyes. "I understand your brain is being washed in hormones, but you could try to fight it at least a little bit."

"You are the sweetest man I have ever met," she said.

Sherlock snorted. "I find that highly improbable unless I was the _only_ man you had ever met."

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he asked, frowning.

"For wanting us. For wanting me. And her," she said pointing at the monitor.

Sherlock frowned to hide his sudden tenderness towards her.

"Yes, well," he said brusquely. "Don't expect me to turn into John just because we have a baby. And another thing – I don't plan on slowing down, either. I intend to keep up with my work and I don't intend to carry her in one of those horrid strap on things."

"A strap on thing?" she asked, spitting laughter before wincing and settling for a grin instead of laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"Irrelevant," she said. And then, "The baby will be in daycare when we're on a case so you don't have to worry about that."

"Daycare?" Sherlock asked with a frown. "What's that?"

"I'm not sure what you call it over here but it's a place where people care for infants and toddlers. So you drop your child off and they take care of it. Usually working parents use it. I guess we qualify as working parents?"

"You drop your child off with – with  _strangers_?" Sherlock asked, looking horrified.

"Well, it's not like – "

"No. Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"You can't _forbid_ it! It doesn't work like that. You can't just say _I forbid it_ ," she said doing another horrible impression of a British accent in the falsetto she reserved for mimicking him. "And anyway, Mycroft can get someone to vet a place that meets _our_ approval. We have to make decisions together, Holmes. You can't just unilaterally decide something without my input. Just so we're clear, though, I'm not staying home all day by myself with a baby once she's old enough to go several hours without eating."

"What does her _eating_ have to do with anything?" Sherlock frowned.

"I want to breastfeed," she said. "Or at least try it."

"Oh, right," he said, picturing Ginny with a baby nursing at her breast. The image was disturbingly arousing. He shuddered.

"Fine. I accept your proposal," Sherlock said, getting back on track. "But you have to ask Mycroft yourself. If I ask him, he'll think I owe him a _favor_."

"Oh, you two, I swear," she said, exasperation clouding her voice. "Does he know?"

"About the baby? Not yet. I swore John to secrecy. When you talk to Mycroft tell him not to – not to tell our parents. I prefer to do that myself."

"What a brave boy you are," she said and smiled. "That means you'll have to tell them about me. That's going to be scary."

"Don't mock me. It's not nice."

"I don't _do_ nice," she said, raising her eyebrows. Or at least the one that wasn't covered in a bandage.

"Enough about that. So. I'm prepared to spend twenty minutes looking at wallpaper or paint swatches with you and/or to read to you from one of your trashy novels unless I get a text from Lestrade about the case."

"Which case?" she asked.

"They're all the same case," he said.

"They're not all the same case."

"They're all _linked_ ," he said, giving her a look that said _you know what I meant_.

She reached out her hand and he stared at it for a few second before saying, "What?"

"Just take my hand," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I asked you to."

"You didn't _ask_. You _told_ me to take your hand."

"Sherlock," she said, sighing with exasperation.

He had to lean over to put his hand in hers but he did it. Her fingers were long, like his. Even the top of her hand had been scraped by the road, the rough red lines scabbed over. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and closed his eyes, his throat tight.

"Sherlock," she said softly.

"Hm?" he asked, not wanting to speak.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't find out until after you kicked me out. I had no expectations of us ever getting back together. And then when we did. Well. I didn't know _how_ to tell you. Every day I told myself _today is the day_ and then the day would end and I would have chickened out again. So I decided to wait until I had gotten the first scan from the clinic and then at least I would have _proof_ in case you decided – "

"Proof? Why would you need proof?"

"Proof that I wasn't lying about being pregnant. I didn't want you to think I was trying to trap you."

"Trap me into what?"

"I just - I didn't know if you would want me if I was having a baby."

"Why wouldn't I want you? Both of you? I don't understand why you would think that," he said, honestly shaken and confused by her lack of faith.

She looked down at their linked hands where Sherlock was still stroking his thumb across her knuckles absentmindedly.

"I don't know how this works. I don't know what I'm doing, Sherlock," she said hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. "You and I were – are – kind of making it up as we go along. I don't know what it means to be loved by someone, other than my sister and my aunt. I don't know what kinds of things are forgivable when you love someone. At least not in real life. I know what I read in books and see on TV and – you know. I just don't know. John told me so much about him and Mary and I remember thinking that I wish – that maybe one day – you could love me like that. I loved you the first time you taught me how to use a microscope. Do you remember?"

Sherlock shook his head. Her eyes were filling with tears again.

"We hadn't even slept together yet. I didn't know that what I felt was love until much later. I think we had only known each other two weeks but you were on a case and we were down in the lab at Bart's and you said _Ginny, come here. Look at this. What do you see_?"

Tears were sliding down her cheeks from both eyes. The ones on the left side were catching against the bandages and following the edges of them until they reached her chin where they dropped onto her hospital gown. Sherlock was struck anew at how silently she cried. If he hadn't been looking directly at her, he wouldn't have known, not until she had cried enough to build up mucus in her nose and throat sufficiently to sound congested. He squeezed her hand tighter, but not tight enough to hurt.

"I was in so much awe," she whispered. "I was so amazed by you. And then for you to think that I was worth taking the time to ask me what I saw. I just – "

Ginny's nose started running and awkwardly he reached over his right arm to pull a tissue out of the box with his left hand and then handed it to her. She blew her nose in a rather unladylike way.

"The first time we had sex – I had never had an orgasm before. I just remember feeling just this – mounting urge for _something_ to happen. I didn't know what would happen. I had no expectations, you know. I had decided I wanted to lose my virginity – as it were – with you but I had no expectations of being your girlfriend or – I didn't – anyway. When it happened, your face was – you looked at me like you were starving and I was food. When I started to close my eyes you said _look at me Georgia_ and I thought _this amazing thing has happened and he doesn't even know my real name_."

"This is all very sweet but is there a reason you're telling me this?" he asked, not unkindly.

"I just wanted you to know how much I've loved you and how terrified I was that if you knew I was pregnant, you wouldn't – " For once, she actually _sounded_ like she was crying; her voice was raw with emotion. Sherlock wanted to look away but he wouldn't; he refused to allow himself to shy away from such an open and honest confession from her. She was a lot like him in that she wasn't very good with feelings. She was a relatively quiet woman; a listener more than a talker and so to hear her saying these things _I had never had an orgasm before_ was – unexpected. Interesting. It brought up the memory of the way she had looked in the darkened room. When he had seen her body he had thought _it's just an average body_ and didn't understand why he thought she was so beautiful. He had thought then his idealization of her was a result of sexual attraction. Of course, now he knew.

" – that you would offer to support the baby – "

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head. "I was distracted thinking about the first time I saw you naked." He looked up at her face. "Don't you _dare_ laugh, Virginia!"

"I'm sorry! It was just so ado – so – yeah."

"Anyway. You were saying?"

"You said you didn't want children so I assumed that when you found out I was pregnant, you would ask me to move out. I knew you would offer financial help but I think maybe part of the reason I kept it a secret is because I didn't want to give you up again."

Ginny took a deep breath and then blew it out again.

"Virginia," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I apologize if I haven't made my feelings plainer to you. I thought after I told you I loved you that you understood that wasn't a temporary or a – or conditional on certain - obviously, there is no such thing as unconditional love so I would be lying if I told you I loved you unconditionally but I didn't realize I would have to specify what conditions were acceptable. You didn't get pregnant on your own. I was involved, obviously. Simple biology. I can hardly _un-love_ you for it any more than you could me. We made a mistake and now we're having a baby. John assures me that's how it happens for most people."

Ginny bit back more laughter.

"I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention to whoever hit me," she said. "I was practicing how to tell you I was pregnant."

"See, pregnancy _has_ made you stupid," he said, but he didn't mean it.

"So we're good?" she asked.

"If by _good_ you mean we have worked out whatever concerns we each had over our relationship to each partner's satisfaction, then yes. We're _good_." He looked at his watch. "Now. As I said earlier, I'm prepared to give you twenty – "

"Yeah, I heard. I want to look at paint swatches and wallpaper samples."

Sherlock sighed deeply. "I was afraid you would say that."

~*~

"Stupid! Stupid, Sherlock! I can't believe I didn't think of this!" Sherlock said out loud to himself on the way home from the hospital. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. "We're looking for an American!"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Lestrade, listen to me. The man who tried to kill Ginny. He's an American! He wouldn't hire someone to kill her. He would do it himself! A man who managed to set Ginny up to kill her mother effectively silencing anyone who could point him out as the father of Georgia's baby would never hire someone else to do the work. He wouldn't be able to trust someone else to do it because that would just be one more person who could connect him to Georgia's murder. Call up all the rental places and ask them for the names of any Americans who have rented cars in the last two weeks!"

Sherlock hung up as abruptly as he had begun the call and then leaned towards the cabbie and gave him the address of the closest rental place on the list.

By the time the work day was over, Lestrade and Sherlock had the contact information for seventeen Americans who had rented cars from Central London Auto Rentals within the last six weeks.


	10. The Weather Forecast Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade close in on the man who attempted to murder Ginny. They break the case just in time for Christmas. Sherlock spends Christmas Even with Ginny at the hospital along with John and his new girlfriend, Gina.

Two days before Christmas, Sherlock and Lestrade were no closer to finding the man who had tried to kill Ginny.

The two of them plus DC Raymond Summers and DS Tamara Perry had interviewed, done background checks on, and researched seventeen Americans, all of whose rental cars turned out to be damage-free and within their possession. None of them had criminal records, almost all of them had alibis, either visiting family or on vacation with others. The two that didn't have alibis were questioned at the station. One threatened to call the American Embassy. The other was seventy-four years old and had come to England on a pilgrimage to follow the journey his father had gone on as an American army captain who died in Normandy on D-Day.

Lestrade refused to let Sherlock in the interview room with either suspect. He was forced to stand impotently behind the glass, acidly insulting every question that was asked. But even he had to admit that they were once again at a dead end.

Sherlock had made a habit of visiting Ginny every afternoon for forty-five minutes, which was about as much as he could handle sitting idly by while her would-be killer got further and further away.

"Sherlock," Ginny said the night Lestrade and Sherlock had let their last suspect go and the case had stagnated in the same place it had been for the last four days.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and looked up, knowing she had been talking and he wasn't paying attention.

"Why don't you go home?" she said gently, reaching for his hand. "You're practically vibrating with anxiety. I don't need you to be here."

"But John said – "

"And he was right. We needed to talk about where we stood with each other. But we did. Besides, I have plenty of visitors. Gina will be here in an hour. One of the analysts I work with said he could come by tonight, too. Mycroft visited me today."

"What?" Sherlock asked, suddenly more interested in this conversation than the case.

"Mycroft couldn't make it yest – "

"What analyst?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Holmes," Ginny said covering her eyes with her hand. "Why are you so jealous?"

"I don't know," he said, looking morose. "It's a completely useless emotion, as I have pointed out many times and yet I can't stop feeling it."

"Sherlock," she said, putting her hand back out for him to take. "Jealousy comes from fear. So what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," he muttered.

"Then what is it?"

"You didn't have anyone when I met you. I was the center of your universe."

"Wow. I'm always surprised at the extent of your arrogance."

"Am I right?" he asked.

She tilted her head one way and then the other, considering it, and then nodded her head. _You're right._ He had been holding her hand loosely in his, intent on what she was saying, watching her face change as she sifted through her thoughts. The whole thing didn't last more than five seconds but it was enough time for her to close her fingers over his hand and turn their clasped hands over so that her palm was underneath his; their skin gliding together felt both familiar and uncomfortable. Sherlock fought the urge to snatch his hand away.

Sherlock wasn't good at generalizing things; when Ginny touched him at home, he was receptive. Outside of the flat, though, it was difficult to relax when she touched him. He knew that nothing had changed – she was still Ginny and he was still Sherlock and everything was the same between them. But what seemed normal and even expected at home was – he couldn't seem to apply it to a larger field of reference. He tolerated it and even derived some comfort from touching her hand, but only when it was held inside his hand and he knew he had control over how much she touched him.

But then she started stroking his palm with the tip of her index finger, sending tremors of desire through his body and he couldn't fight his discomfort anymore. He pulled his hand into his lap.

"What's wrong?" she asked, searching his face. Then she said, "Oh. I'm sorry"

"I don't like – it seems like – I feel out of – "

"Oh, my love, it's okay. You think this is a surprise to me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the endearment.

"Do you know why I think you're the sweetest man I've ever met?" she asked, laying her hand back down on the bed.

"No," he snorted. "I'm curious to explore your logic, however."

"You don't mean to be sweet," she said. "You're just stating a fact and usually you're disappointed in yourself when you say it because you can't stand when you do things that aren't logical, even when they're normal human behavior. You think you're above normal human behavior. I'm happy to take a dozen insults from you in exchange for one honest unintended gesture of love and respect. John has told me several times that he wished you wouldn't insult my looks so much and I told him it doesn't hurt me. You know why?"

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question?"

"Because you tell me things like _I only think you're beautiful because I like you_. Do you know how valuable that is? It's even more precious with you because you see all my flaws and still decided to abandon your principle of avoiding romantic entanglements."

"Morphine makes you far more sentimental that I'm comfortable with," he said, looking at the wall over her head.

"No, I don't think so," she said grinning at him. "You eat this shit up."

"I hope you're not planning to continue using foul language when our daughter is born?"

"You're right that the morphine turns off my filter."

"Filter?"

"Yeah, that thing that everyone but you has? You know, where you don't just say everything that comes into your head even when it's socially inappropriate?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"One more sentimental thing – "

He groaned. "You've already used up your daily allowance of sentiment."

"I see all your flaws and I still think you're the most charming man I've ever met. And every time I see you naked I want to lick – "

"Virginia!" Sherlock hissed, a pink blush spreading through every inch of visible skin.

She laughed; her laugh always seemed to be saying something that was patently obvious to her and yet nobody else could see it – not even him. It was like she knew life was always going to be good no matter how bad it was and nobody would ever convince her otherwise – and it was from this conviction that her laughter and her smiles came.

"Will you marry me?" she asked.

"Don't be absurd! What a terrible idea!"

"Mycroft said he thought we should get married," Ginny said, unfazed by his vehement denial.

"Mycroft _would_. He likes anything that would make me uncomfortable."

"He said when your mother finds out it's going to be unavoidable."

Sherlock groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake. He's right."

Ginny laughed. "He also said it would probably be a very _traditionally tedious_ wedding."

"Oh, God. Mummy is – "

" _Mummy?_ " Ginny cried gleefully. "You're forty-three years old and you still call her _mummy_?"

"Now I remember why I insult you all the time. You have a very intuitive grasp on exactly how to emasculate me."

"Oh, this is not _me_ emasculating you!" she hooted in laughter. "You did that all by yourself by calling your mother _mummy_!"

"Would you please stop laughing so loud? Others will hear you!"

"Can you please just call her _mum_ around me? Because I swear to you if I'm around your parents and you call her _mummy_ I will _lose my shit_!"

"Morphine not only makes you talk more, it makes you sound like a trashy American."

"I _am_ a trashy American, Holmes! Oh, bless your heart. You got stuck with a trashy American!"

"I'm leaving. Try not to embarrass me while I'm gone," he said, getting up and gathering up his coat and muffler and gloves.

"I make no promises," she said, a glint in her eye that made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"Ginny," he said, suddenly serious. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

"I know," she said, looking a little sad. "It sucks that I'm stuck here. So what are you doing for Christmas, then?"

He pulled his head back to look at her, frowning, trying to determine if she was mocking him.

"I'm not doing anything enjoyable, I can promise you that, seeing as how sitting here with you means listening to your irritatingly sentimental declarations and being mocked."

"You're coming _here_ tomorrow?" she asked, looking wide-eyed with pleasant surprise.

"Where else would I be? Although, I will warn you now – if Lestrade makes a breakthrough of _any kind_ , I will abandon you with pleasure."

"I just assumed your – I mean, I thought you would spend Christmas with your family."

 "You _are_ my family," he said, his brow still furrowed in consternation. "I can't wait until you're not on morphine anymore. It really makes you stupid. Oh, my God, _now_ why are you crying?"

~*~

**JW: I think we should do something special for Ginny tomorrow. It's Christmas Eve in case you've forgotten. Her orthopedic surgery is scheduled for the 27 th. They can't do the skin grafts until the ortho surgeons have fixed the bone and tendon damage. They'll have to do several cartilage grafts. She was chuffed to discover the cartilage would be coming from cadavers.**

**SH: That gives me a strange sense of pride. However, I've planned to spend Christmas Eve alone with Ginny.**

**JW: Be there at seven.**

**SH: No.**

**JW: I'm coming over right now and we're going Christmas shopping for her.**

**SH: No.**

**JW: I'll be there in fifteen minutes.**

**SH: I said no! Do you have no regard whatsoever for my feelings in this matter?**

**…**

**SH: John! I know you're receiving my texts! Don't ignore me.**

**…**

**SH: John Watson, I won't be here in fifteen minutes. I'm meeting Lestrade for a very important**

"Hello," John said, walking into the flat.

"You said fifteen minutes!" Sherlock cried out indignantly.

"I lied. I knew you would run. I was outside."

Sherlock stared at him in open mouthed revulsion.

"Put your coat on. We're going shopping," John said.

"No," Sherlock said, and turned his back on John.

"Sherlock. If you don't get up and put your coat on, so help me God, I will shoot you in the foot."

"An empty threat. Since Rosie was born you don't carry your  – "

John reached into his holster and pulled out his gun, pulled off the safety and aimed it at Sherlock's foot. Sherlock gave John his most mutinous expression before standing up.

"You know, when I made my vow to take care of you and Mary and Rosie, I don't recall ever threatening you with a weapon," Sherlock said acidly.

"No, but you murdered someone and sentenced yourself to certain death for us," John said casually, putting the safety back on and slipping his weapon back into its concealed holster.

"I thought you didn't have a permit for that thing," Sherlock said.

"Mycroft," John answered, smiling evilly.

"You and Ginny seem to be very friendly with Mycroft lately," Sherlock scoffed.

"That's because we love you and, despite what you think, Mycroft loves you as well. So, yeah. We have regular meetings. We're called The Society for the Prevention of Sherlock's Idiocy," John said, guffawing loudly as they walked down the stairs.

"Oh, ha ha. You are a riot," Sherlock said, and stuck out his tongue.

"Wow. That was. Well done, Sherlock. Really. I thought you were getting more mature, not less."

"Blame Ginny," Sherlock said, waving down a cab. "She brings out all the worst in me."

John chuckled and shook his head. "Actually, she brings out all the best parts of you, mate. She's the reason we all like you so much these days."

John held the door of the cab open so that Sherlock could get in first.

"Where are we going?" he asked Sherlock once they were in.

"Progen Scientific," Sherlock told the cabbie.

"Where?" both the cabbie and John said at the same time.

"8 Deerpark Road in Merton," Sherlock clarified before sitting back against the seat with a smirk.

"That's an hour away, sir," the cabbie said, looking back at Sherlock uncertainly.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, too pleased with himself to avoid smiling.

"You're paying the bloody fare," John said.

"Fine," Sherlock said rolling his eyes. "I hope you brought something to do, though. This time of day, the traffic is beastly."

"Please tell me you're not doing this just to wind me up," John said, glaring at Sherlock.

"I wish that I could say that was the whole reason," Sherlock said as the cabbie pulled into the street and started on the long journey to Merton. "Trust me when I say that it will be the best Christmas present she'll ever get from me. And the only one."

~*~

Three hours and four hundred and thirty-two pounds later, Sherlock and John were back at the flat with Ginny's Christmas present.

"Christ," John said, slumping in Ginny's chair when they got back to the flat. "I can't decide if I need a cup of tea or a whiskey."

"Help yourself," Sherlock said, disappearing into the back.

"Don't tell me you've got Christmas paper stashed back there," John called.

"What do I need Christmas paper for?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the sitting room with a small box in his hands. He held it up. It was a case of one hundred blank microscope slides. "They come in boxes."

"Sherlock, you can't – " John rubbed his face with his hands. "Make me a cup of tea and I'll go out and get the bloody Christmas paper and ribbons."

"No, no. I've got something," Sherlock said and held up a roll of Christmas trim.

"Where on earth did you get that?" John asked, staring at Sherlock in wonder.

"Oh, please, wipe that look off your face. You know very well I didn't buy it. Ginny bought it a few weeks ago. She suggested she might put a small tree in the sitting room and some trim and I told her if she did, I would set it all on fire."

"I don't know how she puts up with you!"

"She got her payback," Sherlock said wryly. "I keep finding bits of Christmas decoration all over the flat. She put tinsel in my wardrobe, for heaven's sake. Why are you smiling like that?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," John said. "I'm just very happy for you, Sherlock. I worried that you would be alone forever. And nobody should be alone. Not _forever_. And here you are with Christmas trim in your hand, a gift for you wife – "

" – _domestic bloody partner!"_

"Sorry! It's just so much easier to say _wife_ than _domestic partner_. Anyway – look at you. You've bought a Christmas present for the woman you love! You're about to tie it up in Christmas trim! And then the two of you are going to have a baby!"

"Oh, how revolting! It's like you've been turned into my mother."

"Oh, yeah? How do you think that's gonna go? Hm? Thought about what you're gonna say?"

"I'm going to tell them on Christmas day," Sherlock said stiffly, beginning to unroll the trim around the large box with Ginny's present inside. The only bows he had ever tied were the ones on his shoes. Ginny would hardly care. With the amount of pain medication being pumped through her IV Sherlock wasn't entirely sure she knew what was going on half the time.

"Are you _really_?" John asked, sitting up in the chair in anticipation. "Can I be there?"

"Oh, shut up, John. It's not that big of a deal," Sherlock said. He heard the notification chime on his phone and fished it out of his pocket. "I want to ask Ginny first, though, bef – "

Sherlock stopped cold, staring at his phone.

"What is it, Sherlock? Is it Ginny?" John asked, jumping to his feet.

"No," Sherlock said, looking up at John, his eyes on fire. "From Lestrade."

He held his phone up for John to see.

**GL: got a call from a clerk at Flint St location. One of their cars found abandoned outside Lambourn. SOCO on their way there to pick it up. driver was American. heading to Lambourn. On my way to pick you up.**

"John," Sherlock said and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Just in time for Christmas!"

**SH: I'll be waiting outside.**

~*~

"The clerk at the rental place said it was rented three weeks ago but his nationality was listed  as Canadian. That's why we didn't pick it up in our sweep," Lestrade said when Sherlock got into the car. "It was due back two days ago. We just missed it but they all had instructions to call if there were any vehicles returned damaged or missing. The driver's name was Sam Clark."

"Sam Clark," Sherlock murmured to himself. "That name sounds familiar."

"Yeah? Well, if you can think of anything let me know because it's an alias. The Sam Clark with that Social Security Number died in 1953."

"For fuck's sake!" Sherlock said and slammed his fist into his knee. It was a phrase he had picked up from Ginny and he had really learnt to put it to good use.

"Hold on there, Sherlock. There's some good news!" Lestrade said, eyeing Sherlock nervously.

"Well, I wish you would've led with the good news, then!" Sherlock snapped.

"I was giving you some bloody background!"

"So the good news?" Sherlock asked.

"There's three cab companies in Lambourn that were open for business the days of and after Ginny's hit and run. One of them – Haverford's – is locally owned. They don't keep records of their fares so they didn't have any contact information for their clients. _But_ , the owner says his son-in-law drove an American to the London Heathrow Marriott Hotel. And that's where we're headed with a warrant in hand."

Sherlock wanted to cry with relief. After a month of going over the same information, he had begun to despair that he would ever get Ginny out of the trap she was in.

"Sam Clark," Sherlock murmured to himself.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, irritated at being yanked from his thoughts.

"There could be dozens of Americans who have stayed at this hotel. This could turn out to be a dead end as well."

"No," Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so."

~*~

The hotel wasn't a bust – they ended up with dozens of names of Americans who had stayed at the hotel on or after November 26, which was the date that Sherlock called Jessica Sanchez and unknowingly led her would-be murderer to her. Lestrade, DS Perry and DC Summers went back to NSY to put in their paperwork before heading home. There wasn't going to be any progress made by the Met until the next day when Lestrade and his two colleagues returned to interview those of the hotel guests on the list who were still staying there. It was almost midnight when Sherlock finally got home.

He yanked off his gloves and muffler and then his coat, throwing everything on the couch before striding to his desk. The flat was stuffy; Mrs. Hudson had turned the heat up too high again. He opened the front windows just a crack, automatically blocking the street noises out of his head. He didn't bother turning on any lights.

"Sam Clark," he muttered.

He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. He sorted through all the information he knew about Ginny's case. _Who's Sam Clark?_

Seven minutes later, his eyes flew open.

"Sam Clark!" he said, jumping up and fishing out his phone. He immediately texted Lestrade.

**SH: Sam Clark is the co-owner of Jessica Sanchez's IRA. Jessica Sanchez is the woman who recanted her testimony against Ginny's parents in 2016. Whoever's using Sam Clark as an alias will be connected to Jessica Sanchez in some way.**

"I _told_ you Jessica Sanchez was the key!" Sherlock said to Ginny, whirling around to face her chair. "Oh. Right."

In his excitement, he had forgotten she wasn't there.

Sherlock stayed up as late as he could, googling all the names on the list, but he fell asleep around 3 in the morning. When he woke up an hour later, he went up to Ginny's room to lay back down. He missed her even more now that they were so close to catching the man who had tried to kill her, had most likely set her up for murdering her mother and who also had beaten her sister to death.

One man. One man had taken Ginny's sister, had taken Ginny's freedom, had almost taken Ginny herself. Sherlock wished 'Sam Clark' had still been staying in his hotel room. He would have choked the man to death and loved it.

~*~

The next day was Christmas Eve. Visiting hours at the hospital didn't start until nine in the morning and at nine in the morning Sherlock was breezing into Ginny's room with the list in his hand, ready to find the man who tried to kill her. If Jessica Sanchez was the key, then this guy would be the first domino to fall. After that, everything would come crashing down around the ears of these people who had spent thirty years getting away with child abuse, rape and murder. He could almost hear the bang of the gavel, could see the jury foreman reading out the guilty charges, could see these men, however elderly they might now be, taken out of the courtroom and away to prison and to never back and he couldn't wait to tell Ginny.

But Ginny wasn't alone. There were two doctors bent over her and a nurse was standing behind a rolling tray of steel surgical instruments as well as a large bucket of bandages. Her blanket was pushed down past her feet and her hospital gown was rucked up just under her breasts. One of the doctors was removing the inflatable balloons that had been pushing circulation through her legs since after she had come out of her first surgery and the first balloon was just coming off when Sherlock walked in. At the sight of her naked legs, Sherlock sucked in a painful breath. His hands began to shake.

"Can you please wait outside, sir?" the nurse said, coming towards him.

"No, I can't," Sherlock said, and pushed his way past her.

He caught a glimpse of Ginny's face on the other side of the doctor nearest to him. She looked groggy.

"Sir!"

"It's okay, Shannon," one of the doctors said, looking up at Sherlock. "Hello again, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh. Yes. Dr. Chen," Sherlock said and nodded at her before looking at Ginny.

"Hi," she said weakly.

"I'll marry you," Sherlock blurted out.

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. He winced at his lack of eloquence.

"Here, can you just come around this side for me and stand near her head?" Dr. Chen asked Sherlock, breaking the tension in the room. "I don't mind you staying but I do mind if you get in my way."

Sherlock moved around Dr. Chen to stand at the head of the bed. The steady _bimp bimp bimp_ of Ginny's heart monitor and the _thrum thrum thrum_ of their daughter's was reassuring. Even so, his hands were shaking so badly that he felt like they might shake his whole body apart. Ginny reached for his hand and he took it and brought it to his lips.

"Did you see my sexy legs and decide you couldn't let me get away?" Ginny asked, her words coming out slowly but the smile in her eyes and her voice was still there, just like it had always been.

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking at her.

"You just said you would marry me," Ginny reminded him.

"Oh. Yes. I – "

"Changed your mind?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to look up at him. She blinked slowly.

He took both sides of her face in his hands and bent down and pressed his forehead to hers. In the secret dark space between them the rest of the world disappeared. Sherlock was shocked to find the hitch in his chest and the tightness in his throat that meant he was about to start crying.

"You don't have to marry me," she said.

"I don't mind marrying you," he murmured, feeling like he was saying something more like _I began to live the day I met you and would die if I lost you._

"I know," she whispered, and he knew she understood what he was really telling her.

"Do you think you could stand meeting my parents tomorrow? I'll have them come here."

"I'll be on my best behavior," she said.

"Shannon, can you get Mr. Holmes a chair, please?"

"Oh, no I'm – " Sherlock said looking up.

"That way the two of you can talk without you having to bend over so far."

"Right. Thank you."

He gratefully sat in the folding chair that the nurse grudgingly brought him. He reached out for Ginny's hand and brought it to his lips. Her eyelids fluttered briefly. Sherlock stared again at her legs.

They looked like they had been broken in half and then stitched back together by Victor Frankenstein. The stitches were thick and black and loosely held the skin together. The skin was puffy around the stitches and some of the edges had turned black. The side of her leg looked black and red where it had been scraped raw.

"Can you explain to me what you're doing?" Sherlock said. "I'm not at all squeamish."

"I wouldn't think so, in your line of work," Dr. Chen said with a half-smile. "We have to do some debridement along the lines of the original stitches. There's just some necrosis – do you see it here along this edge? We have to check it a few times a day so we know when to scrape off the dead skin."

"Why are the stitches so choppy?"

"These are just the stitches from the original surgery last week. They're to keep her skin together but we weren't sure if she would need a second orthopedic surgery. When Dr. McGuire here is done with her this Friday, he'll do a much neater job."

"Mr. Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you," Dr. McGuire said, holding out his hand. Sherlock was surprised to find he was American. "I'll be happy to answer any questions you have."

"What exactly has to be done at this next surgery?" Sherlock asked.

"She has some tendon damage that we weren't able to anticipate in the original emergency surgery. On the left leg here, she had a medial fracture along the tibia which we connected and pinned during her first surgery. But there was some damage done to the tendon that connects the patella to the quad muscles that we initially thought would heal on its own.

"When we go in, we'll graft the donor tendon along here – and here and then we'll be able to stitch her up more neatly. She'll have her beautiful legs back," Dr. McGuire said, winking at Ginny who beamed back at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

When they began the process of scraping off the dead skin along her stitches, Sherlock found out he was squeamish after all.

~*~

When the doctors were done and had bandaged her legs back up, Sherlock went back into Ginny's room and sat down in the more comfortable visitor's chair on Ginny's left side.

"Hi," she said again. "You look tired."

"That's because I've been working while you've been laying here getting your legs scraped off. That was disgusting."

"I've seen you dig through maggot covered dead bodies but that made you sick?"

"I'm sure if you saw somebody debriding necrotized flesh off of my legs, you would feel a bit funny in the tummy as well." Then he clapped his hands together, startling Ginny. "I have good news! Can you look over this list of names and see if you recognize any of them? We found the car that hit you, Ginny. We found it! It was rented by a man using the alias of Sam Clark who just happens to be the co-owner of Jessica Sanchez's IRA."

"I'm so jealous," Ginny said, looking miserable. "You're doing all the fun stuff!"

"Well, pay attention next time when you cross the road," he said and winked at her. He handed her the list.

Sherlock vibrated with expectant energy while she looked over the list. It had been organized alphabetical and it didn't take long before she came across something.

"This one. Chris Barlow," she said handing it back to Sherlock. "He was a weatherman on one of the local news channels when I was a kid."

"This is the one!" Sherlock said, jumping up. He pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

**SH: Ginny recognized Chris Barlow. She said he did the weather on a local channel when she was a child.**

**GL: on it**

Sherlock sat back down and googled Chris Barlow on his phone.

"He retired from the NBC affiliate two years ago," Sherlock said and looked through the article. "We've got him, Ginny. We've got him! Look! It says he was accompanied to his retirement party by his niece Jessica Massey, her husband Hunter Massey and their two young daughters."

"Sherlock?" Ginny gasped. He turned towards her. "The weather forecast. Georgia told me before she left that night that she thought the father of her baby did the weather forecast. Oh, God, Sherlock. I didn't know. Oh, God. I didn't understand. I didn't know. How could I have not known? How could – "

Sherlock squeezed into her bed as well as he could without jarring her too much and held her while she wept for her lost sister. He kept his lips pressed to her hair, murmuring the kind of platitudes he used to despise. _It's okay; it will be okay_. Ginny gripped his arm, her fingers digging painfully into his arms and he had never been so grateful to feel her strength. She _would_ be okay, their Ginny. Nobody with a grip that strong could fail to thrive.

When she lay spent and limp against him and her eyes had fluttered shut in sleep, he took his phone out and sent a series of texts.

**SH: Can you pick up Ginny's gift and bring it to the hospital? I don't want to leave her. Don't forget the slides!**

**JW: No problem.**

**SH: Come to St. Mary's hospital tomorrow around 2 pm. I have something to tell you.**

**VH: Sherlock, what's going on? Answer me! I'm not waiting until tomorrow! I'm coming RIGHT NOW.**

~*~

"Hello there!" said a woman's voice, coming into the door. Sherlock looked up from his phone where he had been googling Chris Barlow and exchanging texts with Lestrade. He was sitting back in the visitor's chair. A tiny woman, barely over five foot with curly dark hair and dark skin came around the corner and waved at him. She was carrying a bag half as big as she was and a small potted Christmas tree. She moved into the room with an energy that seemed to explode outwards from her tiny person.

Ginny opened her eyes and turned towards the newcomer.

"Oh, hi, Gina," she said sleepily.

"Oh, my love, did I wake you up? You look like you needed a bit of rest. I've brought some fun stuff for you! We'll get you a little makeup on and then fix up your hair a bit and have a little celebration this Christmas Eve, eh? Oh, you must be Sherlock Holmes! It's so nice to meet you. John's just parking the car. Here can you budge over so I can put this tree next to Ginny? In fact, why don't you go sit over there. I really need to sit here so I can do her makeup Besides, you've had her all day! It's my turn! Thanks!"

With that, Sherlock was essentially banned to the corner by the tiny whirlwind that was John's new girlfriend.

Sherlock was holding his phone in his hand and standing in the corner when John came in.

"Hey, there!" John said to Ginny and set her gift from Sherlock on the floor behind her bed. Then he bent and kissed Ginny's cheek. He looked at his watch. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Right here," Sherlock said wryly, waving from the corner.

"Oh, you're early, mate! I'm impressed. How's it going?"

"We found him, John," Sherlock said, recovering from Gina's assault.

"Oh, Sherlock, that's such good news. What a relief. Ginny, love, how are you – "

The door opened again and disgorged a harried looking Mycroft.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Mummy's on her way."

"What?" Sherlock, Ginny, and John cried at the same time.

"Oh, look at that, love, you get to meet your future mother-in-law! I'll fix you up special. She'll take one look at that baby monitor over there and I guarantee she's gonna love you to _pieces_!" Gina said.

She was the only one in the room who _wasn't_ speechless.


	11. The Washing Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ginny heals and is eventually sent home, the details surrounding her case are revealed. As the evidence mounts against both her sister's killer and the men involved in her parents' child trafficking ring, Ginny and Sherlock prepare for the birth of their daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go and I promise you that I will deliver it today if it kills me!

"Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly. "What do you _mean_ Mummy's on her way."

He was surprised Ginny didn't make fun of him for saying _Mummy_ like she had earlier but when he chanced a glance at her face, she looked pale and terrified.

"She says she got a text from you that said you were in hospital," Mycroft said accusingly. "What on earth did you tell her?"

"To meet me here tomorrow at two because I had something to tell her," Sherlock said, frowning.

"Oh, you idiot," John said and bit back his laughter. "You don't tell your mum you're in hospital and have something to tell her and expect her not to come running!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know that!" Sherlock snapped.

Everyone looked at him in that way people had that implied something was common knowledge and really – how had he gotten to be his age without knowing that? He hated that look.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to introduce her now. I hope you're ready, Virginia. She'll probably shout at me for getting someone pregnant. And an American at that," Sherlock said.

"Oh, hello my dear," Mycroft said, moving to kiss Ginny on the cheek. "Don't worry about Mummy. She's a frightening woman but I find it difficult to believe anyone can terrify you."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ginny said faintly.

Everyone waited in a hushed and tense silent for about two minutes before the door burst open and Mummy Holmes came through the door. She ran straight for Sherlock without acknowledging anyone else.

"Uh, we'll leave you a bit of privacy," John said, ushering Gina and Mycroft out the door.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes said, pulling Sherlock into a bone crushing hug. She then held him by the shoulders and pulled back to look him over. "I was terrified! I thought you were dying or hurt or – "

Suddenly she stilled and then ever so slowly turned around. Her eyes widened as she took in Ginny and the hospital bed.

"Hello," Ginny said nervously, waving at Sherlock's mother.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes asked, turning back to look at her son.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, well. This is what I wanted to tell you. This is Ginny."

"Hello," Ginny said again from her bed, looking exactly as she had when she told Sherlock she loved him; in other words, she looked like she was going to throw up.

Sherlock moved over to the side of Ginny's bed and then rolled the fetal monitor screen out and turned it towards his mother.

"And this is, um. Well, I thought Sabrina? Or maybe Julia. I also like Helene," Sherlock said to Ginny, momentarily distracted from the tension in the room with the names he had been going over in his head ever since he learnt he was having a daughter.

Mrs. Holmes gasped and looked momentarily like she was going to cry.

"Are you – is this – is she yours?" Mrs. Holmes whispered.

"Yes, they both are actually," Sherlock said, unsure which _she_ his mother was referring to.

"Oh, Sherlock! Oh, you poor dear," Mrs. Holmes said and at first Sherlock was worried she was telling him she was sorry he had been saddled with a baby and its mother until he saw that she was bending over Ginny's bed and engulfing her in what he hoped was _not_ a bone-crushing hug. Ginny's bones had been crushed quite enough already. "What's happened to you?"

"I was run over by a car," Ginny said conversationally. "Sorry about that."

"About being run over by a car?" Sherlock's mother exclaimed. "I shouldn't think it was your fault!"

"No, I meant about you not finding out until, you know. Right now. Considering. We've been. For about six months?"

"Sherlock!" his mother said turning towards him. "Why must you and your brother always keep secrets! I'm not delicate, you know. I'm not going to fall apart at a bit of surprising news. Especially not this kind of surprise!"

She hugged Ginny again and said, "Congratulations, my dear. I'm so grateful to meet you. I worried he would die a virgin."

" _Mummy!_ " Sherlock shouted. "Please!"

"Oh, stop, Sherlock. You and your brother and your – well, never mind. Always concerned about your mind and never concerned about your heart. I don't know how three such frighteningly inhuman children should have come from my body."

"Three?" Ginny asked, looking at Sherlock. _Now who's keeping secrets?_ her face said.

"Later," Sherlock mumbled and then more quietly said, "Much later."

"Oh, my Lord! This is wonderful, Sherlock! Ginny did you say? I take it she's a girl from the names Sherlock listed?"

"Yes," Sherlock and Ginny said at the same time.

"Oh, a granddaughter," Mrs. Holmes sighed, and briefly closed her eyes. "I had resigned myself to having none. What a wonderful Christmas present!"

She kissed Ginny's cheek and then Sherlock's as well. Then she sat down in the chair Sherlock had already begun to think of as _his_ chair and took Ginny's hand.

"I want to hear _all_ about you, my dear! I presume I'll not only have a granddaughter to look forward to but a wedding as well? Oh! A spring wedding! How far along are you? Oh, no we might not be able to do it before you're showing. Well, that hardly matters. Nobody gets married _before_ they have children these days. When I was a girl your age that would have been social suicide."

"Oh, my," Sherlock said faintly. "I hadn't thought – "

"Well, clearly you _hadn't thought_ ," Mrs. Holmes said with a look that suggested Sherlock should be quiet.

The door opened again and in came Daddy Holmes.

"William!" Mrs. Holmes cried. "We're having a granddaughter!"

"Oh?" Mr. Holmes said, looking at his wife and then at Sherlock and then at Ginny. "How lovely."

~*~

An hour later, Sherlock was sitting in his chair again, his head in his hands while Ginny laughed. As soon as his parents had gone, she had begun laughing and it seemed like that had been a good fifteen minutes ago.

"I'm sorry, baby! I'm sorry! I just can't – oh my God! No wonder you keep everything a secret! She's terrifying, isn't she? I thought she was going to smother me. Oh, fuck, I think I'm going to throw up," she said and Sherlock's head snapped up at the sudden change in her voice.

She was breathing hard and did, indeed, look like she was going to throw up.

"Ginny?" he asked uncertainly.

She had begun shivering, just a slight tremor at first but it looked like it was going to get worse before long.

"I can't have a baby! What am I doing having a baby? I can't even take a shit by myself! I can't walk! And she wants for me to marry you? In a real wedding? I can't marry you! That's a terrible idea! That's almost worse than having a baby!"

Sherlock didn't know which was the stronger emotion – revulsion at Ginny's crude reference to bodily functions or indignation that she thought marrying him was a terrible idea.

"Well, we can hardly – "

"I can't do this, Sherlock, I can't. How am I going to do this? I can't do this!"

Sherlock stood up and leaned over her and put his hands on either side of her pillow.

"Ginny, look at me. You not only survived being repeatedly raped as a child but the loss of the only two people you loved – your sister murdered, your aunt imprisoned. You went out on your own at an age when I was still slouching around Cambridge being moody and arrogant and living off my family. You forged your own life and lived through what must have been crushing loneliness for someone like you! And you did it for sixteen years! When your freedom was threatened and you believed yourself a murderer, you had the wherewithal and the gumption to flea overseas and find me. When I kicked you out of our flat because my pride was threatened, you forgave me as though I deserved to be forgiven! And despite all of that, I have rarely seen you angry or moody or hateful. You are beautiful and funny and kind and smart and charming. You smile and laugh like – like life is a great adventure and you an intrepid adventurer.

"I have been in awe of you since the moment I met you. I don't know why you love me – and I should really like to interrogate you about it but since you were run over by a car and I've been trying to catch the man who tried to kill you, I haven't had a chance; but I do wonder, I really do, Virginia.

"My point is – if you can do all that _and_ charm my best friend and my brother _and_ survive my mother _and_ still laugh at me – I think you can do anything you set your mind to. You'll be a wonderful mother. I'm terrified at the thought of having to live up to your level of excellence in that department. I'm afraid I've spent every day since Barlow almost killed you being terrified that I can't protect you and Sabrina. Julia. Vivienne? Amelia! No, not Amelia. I think I had a client whose wife was named Amelia and was cheating on him."

"You think I'm beautiful?" Ginny asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock said and when he saw the look on her face, amended, "I know that I say you're not pretty or whatever horrible things I'm sure I say, but I've always thought you were beautiful. To me you are. I keep trying to convince everyone you're plain so other men will stop smiling at you. It's a terrible thing, genius. It requires an audience. A _rapt_ audience at that. I hate to think there's competition for your affection and attention. I don't want my audience wandering off at intermission."

"Oh, Sherlock. For a man who's so ridiculously arrogant and vain, I can't figure out why you think that there is any threat for either my affection or attention!"

"Well, it's like you said to me. I don't know what it means to be loved by someone. Not this kind of love – not romantic love. I feel threatened at every turn. It's exhausting."

"If I marry you, will you stop feeling threatened?"

"I highly doubt it."

"I suppose that's just as well. A wedding seems so – do we really have to have a _wedding_?" she asked. "I was hoping that we could just sneak off and do it quietly somewhere."

"Yes, well, _quietly_ got thrown out of the window as soon as my mother got involved."

"You know, we never even told her we planned to get married," Ginny said.

"Oh, she doesn't need permission. Trust me," Sherlock said. Then he remembered Ginny's gift and jumped up out of his chair. "Oh! I got you a gift!"

He walked around her bed to where John had hidden it and lifted it up along with the small box of blank microscope slides. He set it gently on her bed and pushed the button to lift the top half of her bed up a little more so she could open it.

"You bought me a microscope?" she asked, pushing aside the Christmas trim to read the box.

"I got tired of you stealing mine. Also, you mentioned the first time you – you mentioned that time at Bart's when I showed you how to use one. You may have said something about loving me then?"

"You bought me a microscope because I told you that I began to love you the day you showed me how to use one?"

"And also because I was irritated you kept using mine."

"I'm – you're – that's – " Ginny said and dissolved into tears.

"I'm fairly confident that this was an appropriate gift, accompanied by the appropriate sentiment, so presumably those are tears of joy?" he asked.

Ginny nodded her head and then let out a sob.

"My God, Virginia, I hope you don't intend to continue this habit of crying every time you have even the slightest emotion. I'm not sure I can handle both you and the baby crying all the time."

"Well, if you would stop being so _sweet_ and _lovable_ then I would stop crying!" she said, thrusting her finger at him and glaring, accusation flashing in her eyes.

"Well, I wish I could stop, too, but I can't seem to stop doing things that will make you keep loving me, especially as men are always smiling at you. Oh, and I've got you a box of blank slides so you'll stop wasting mine," he said, holding up the box.

Ginny cried and laughed alternately until she wore herself out and Sherlock along with her. Around nine, she yawned and Sherlock took the large box holding the microscope and set it on the floor and then took the box of slides and set that on the floor as well.

"I'm exhausted," she said suddenly.

"Sleep, then. I've been told that chair folds out into a bed."

She gave him a baffled look.

"Oh! I thought I'd stay the night. You know. Since it's Christmas and all. Don't expect this treatment next year, though. I assure you this is a one-off only because you've been run over by a car."

"I'll take it," she said.

As she slept, Sherlock watched her. He watched as nurses came in every few hours to check on her. He watched her until the steady _bimp bimp bimp_ of her heartbeat and the much faster _thrum thrum thrum_ of their daughter's heart lulled him to sleep.

~*~

Ginny's orthopedic surgery took place on the 27th of December. The tendons in her knee were grafted successfully and she began physical therapy shortly after. She was made to get out of bed three times a day and always came back looking weak and exhausted. It was brutal and painful but her physical therapist was not a bit sympathetic.

By the time Ginny had her skin graft surgery on the 8th of January, the forensics team at New Scotland Yard had connected the evidence on the car Barlow had rented with Ginny's attempted murder. All of the information was relayed to the Houston Police Department, and the detectives assigned to the case were quickly issued a warrant for the arrest of Chris Barlow.

Once Jessica Sanchez Massey discovered her uncle had allowed her to be placed with a couple who was selling their daughter out to him and allowing her to be repeatedly raped, she went to the police to give testimony against her uncle even though it meant being charged with perjury and corruption of justice.

She told the police that she had begun having flashbacks of her abuse after the birth of her first daughter and then again after the birth of her second daughter. She was in the habit of calling her Uncle Chris after each one because he had long been her confidante. During one conversation, she said she had remembered overhearing Georgia tell Ginny that she thought the man who fathered her baby "did the weather." Georgia was murdered that same night. In the guise of seeking justice for Georgia, Barlow asked Jessica if anyone else knew that information and Jessica said Ginny had told her mother that the father of Georgia's baby "did the weather." Libby Lynch told her daughter that she was delusional, that Georgia wasn't pregnant and had just been saying that to Ginny to convince her to run away.

A month after she confided these things to her uncle, Jessica Sanchez was sent an anonymous letter saying that an IRA for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was being opened in her name and she would receive three thousand a month if she recanted her testimony against Libby Lynch. Of course, her Uncle Chris counseled her to accept the bribe because she had two young daughters to think of and neither she nor Ginny nor Ashley Rooney were at any risk by having Libby Lynch released from prison. As a result of Jessica's testimony, Libby Lynch was granted early parole in January of 2016. Two years later, Ginny was convicted of shooting her mother.

Jessica's testimony reduced her sentences to seventeen months in county jail. She told the press that she would've gladly spent twenty years in jail if it had meant putting away all the men who had systematically raped herself, Georgia and Ginny Lynch and Ashley Rooney. She was quoted saying, "Ginny took the worst of it because she was [just a child]. To think that I put her in the positon of [allegedly murdering] her mother makes me sick. I deserve every day I spend [in jail]. I'll be the greatest lesson my girls could have in the importance of integrity."

The evidence against Barlow mounted.

As a result, Barlow gave up a man named Javier Aguirre, the cousin of Barlow's deceased brother-in-law. Aguirre worked for a drug research company and had been fired in 2016 for stealing a formula for a short-acting inhalable drug intended for surgeries where the patient had to be awake but as relaxed as they would be under anesthesia, such as neurosurgery and some dental procedures. The drug was inhaled through a nasal mask like the kind used for some patients who were required to have oxygen round the clock. As soon as the mask was removed, the drug immediately began to leave their system and they only remained groggy for a short period of time after.

During human trials, however, it was discovered that the patients who had been given the drug had no memory of having been given it nor what they had experienced while under its effects because their brain replaced their own memories with the memory of what was said around them. In the human trial reports, an incident where a patient under the drug heard one man ask another if he had gone golfing with someone named Alex the previous weekend, and  the patient woke up with a memory of having gone golfing with someone named Alex the previous weekend. Even though the patient knew he didn't golf or know anyone named Alex and even though he was told it wasn't his memory, the memory itself persisted even after a one year follow-up.

Aguirre had been stealing the drug for years for himself, Barlow and four other men, all who had participated in the Lynches' child trafficking ring and all of whom were still raping girls twenty-five years later. More girls came forward. More dominoes fell.

Slowly but surely, Ginny's name was being cleared.

On Friday, January 18th, Ginny was released from St. Mary's and sent home. Sherlock had installed a temporary ramp up to their first floor flat and pushed Ginny up in her wheelchair. She could walk short distances with the aid of crutches and every day, Sherlock wheeled her back down and took her to physical therapy and then brought her home again.

Surprisingly, Sherlock's mother came to her own conclusion that the wedding should be saved for later that year. She suggested a Christmas wedding, which was fitting, considering it was Christmas when she discovered she was going to blessed with both a granddaughter and a daughter-in-law.

Between physical therapy and having a newborn, Ginny was going to be stretched to the limit but she was not in short supply of helpers. Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson and Gina were all three so taken with the idea of helping out with the baby that Sherlock lived in fear of being ousted from his own flat at any moment.

Sherlock knew he had done all the hard work, which also happened to be the fun work, and at this point, he was usually happy to hand over the boring work to the professionals to arrest, convict and sentence the criminals involved. But because Ginny's name and future was in the balance, he had a hard time letting go. Sherlock hired a lawyer in Houston to file an appeal with the highest appellate court in the state.

The three judges presiding over Ginny's appeal in the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals took two days to find her not-guilty. Her conviction was overturned. She was free.

Ginny was finally, blessedly safe, not only from Barlow but from the American judicial system. The same lawyer was tasked with getting Katherine Cuellar, Ginny's aunt, an impromptu parole hearing. Jessica Sanchez Massey and Ashley Rooney (who was found on a commune outside of Austin) testified in her favor. Ginny gave her testimony through New Scotland Yard. Her aunt was granted parole. Her conviction couldn't be overturned but as she told Ginny in a video chat, "All I ever wanted was for you to be safe."

Ginny's legs healed. She wore nothing but empire waist dresses, some of them short and some of them long, all of them delightfully easy for Sherlock to get under. The scars on her legs were livid; she really did look like someone had taken them apart and sewed them back together but she wasn't self-conscious about them and told Sherlock if it bothered him, she would wear trousers for the rest of her days. He told her that he couldn't think of anything more heartbreaking than to have to start getting her out of her trousers to make love to her. Despite her pregnancy and her not quite healed legs, Ginny regularly dragged Sherlock off to bed and he happily followed her. Then one night Ginny was spooning him and the baby kicked him in the back. After that, he refused to have sex with her even though both Ginny and the obstetrician assured him there was no harm to be done. The obstetrician also assured Ginny and Sherlock that it was perfectly normal for him not to want to have sex with her, which caused Ginny to give the obstetrician a mutinous glare. 

The left side of her face was laced with white lines but the scars didn't detract from her beauty, either the outer type or the inner. Sometimes when Sherlock looked at her he felt like she had taken a great big knife and cut him off from the life he'd had before. Not the good things, like John and cases and annoying Mycroft, but she had cut off the bad things so that he could leave them in the past and move forward. And move forward he did.

Sherlock had the furniture in Ginny's room moved into storage and the rest of Ginny's things moved into the bedroom that used to be his and was now theirs. He was detailed to hang wallpaper in the nursery and strong-armed John into helping. Gina and Ginny spent a lot of time together and made an interesting study in marked contrast. Ginny was tall and less curvy (despite the largesse that graced her backside) and her voice was deep and her personality modest and a little reserved. Gina was half a foot shorter, curvy, had a high pitched voice and, as Sherlock complained regularly, never stopped talking. Ginny said he was jealous because Gina was always stealing Ginny's attention. Sherlock said she was probably right but it was still very annoying and he wished John had chosen a quieter woman as it was quickly becoming apparent that they would probably be stuck with Gina for a very long time, if not for good.

Even though the nursery was finished, the furniture ordered and delivered and set up, they squeezed a portable crib into their room so that Ginny wouldn't have to travel up and down the stairs until her legs had healed sufficiently to make it less painful. Gina and Mrs. Holmes gave her a baby shower which – thankfully – Ginny requested be women only. She was "showered" with so many gifts that Sherlock was forced to rent out and begin clearing the basement flat of their building to move all of his scientific equipment. He wasn't as upset about it as he would have thought. He moved the old refrigerator down there and bought a new one for the kitchen.

As Ginny's due date drew closer, Sherlock found himself worrying more and more about his ability to protect such a fragile creature as a newborn baby. He became obsessed with child proofing things which drove Ginny crazy. _Stop worrying_ she kept saying. _She'll be fine_. He read parenting books and books about child development. He talked to Ginny about things like water birth and how the way modern medicine treated pregnancy – as though it was an illness rather than a natural event – created the need for more C-sections rather than natural births. The minute he suggested a home birth, she put her foot down and dragged John into the argument as well. He gave up on the idea but he couldn't help but feel that the doctors in whose hands he was placing the life and health of his partner and daughter were idiots and would somehow hurt one or the other. And then there was the frightening thought of getting Ginny and the baby from the hospital to Baker Street and all the things that could happen between those locations.

The winter became spring. March turned into April and Sherlock and Ginny finally had a chance to take a breath, but it didn't last long. Ginny went into labor on April 9th, a week early, much to her delight. Sherlock called Mycroft who sent a car and Ginny was delivered back to St. Mary's three months after she had left.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes becomes a father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! FourCornersHolmes here for Lampy!  
> Tags have been added, but I'm putting another note up here. There's a pretty thorough and graphic description of childbirth - which is a loud, messy, and violent process - in this chapter. If this kind of thing squicks you, please proceed with caution. Just don't bellyache at us because you were toodling along and suddenly you got an eyeful. Thanks, much love to all!   
> Four

Sherlock had convinced Ginny of the importance of staying home until her contractions were five minutes apart. If she went to the hospital, she would just be put into a birthing suite and most likely made to stay in bed, which would probably prolong her labor. Since Ginny had barely made it through the first two chapters of one of the baby books Sherlock had bought and seemed content to do whatever he suggested, they stayed home. For half a day, her contractions were twenty minutes apart and bothered her very little. She would stop talking or walking or reading and wince a little and then take a deep breath and it would go away.

At ten that night, her contractions jumped from twenty minutes to ten minutes apart. She winced more often and there was the occasional groan. An hour later the contractions were five minutes apart and Sherlock called Mycroft and asked him to send a car. In the car Ginny's contractions became close enough together that as soon as the pain of one started to ease, another would bear down on her immediately.

Sherlock knew that he shouldn't have been surprised at how loudly Ginny could yell considering how loud her speaking voice could be; she modulated it but it was the kind of voice that could carry across a large room. So he _shouldn't_ have been surprised at how loudly she could yell but he was nonetheless surprised.

He tried not to be embarrassed and failed. He hid behind the door as three nurses and one doctor hauled in various trolleys loaded with things that looked like they should not be anywhere near a baby.

"Bring me a fucking anesthesiologist! If you put me in that fucking bed and make me lay down, you better have a fucking anesthesiologist! I need to _walk_! It's the only way I can handle the pain!"

"Mrs. Holmes, the doctor needs to examine you."

"I'm not his fucking wife!" Ginny yelled.

"She's really usually a very good-natured person," Sherlock said to a nurse who escorted him to the head of Ginny's bed and chastised him for hiding.

"Oh, darlin' they're all like this at this point."

"Yes, she's in transition. I have read it's the most painful. I just didn't think – I mean she was run over by a car and her legs crushed and I never heard a peep!"

"Oh, I'm sure she was loaded with pain killers. That's the difference, you see. She's got all this pain and nothing to take it away. Go hold her hand, Daddy. It's the least you can do."

"I feel like people keep saying that to me," Sherlock said to the nurse.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Ginny yelled and Sherlock flinched.

"I'm here," he said weakly.

"Tell these fucking idiots to get me an anesthesiologist. Oh, my God, there's something in my ass!"

All three of the nurses laughed and the doctor said, "That's your daughter's head pressing against your rectum. It's a good sign, Mum! It means she's ready to be born!" Then she gestured to the nurse "Let's get the bottom of the table down, Laura and get her in the stirrups. Mr. Holmes, would you like to watch the baby being born?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said. Ginny glared at him although he hadn't the faintest idea why. Well. She was glaring at everyone so that was probably why.

"I really didn't think she would be this angry," Sherlock said confidentially to the doctor as he watched Ginny's legs being put up into the stirrups while another nurse lifted the head of the bed so that Ginny looked like she was folded in half except for the huge bulge in the middle.

"Well, it's like having someone tie up your insides with razor wire," the doctor said, looking thoughtful. "By the time you actually deliver, you can barely feel having something ten centimeters wide pass through your vagina. It hurts quite a lot. All the ones who don't get an epidural scream."

"Oh, well, it's good to know this is normal behavior," Sherlock said.

"She's doing really well. Most of the women I see who get to this stage without any anesthesia or pain meds, at least the ones who haven't worked out some natural way of controlling the pain – you know, the breathing and the hypnosis and all that – anyway, usually those women are screaming insults at their husbands and threatening people. She's quite subdued, comparatively speaking. Laura, can you hand me the headlight?"

Sherlock watched as the doctor put a tiny light on top of her head and then bent to peer into Ginny's vagina.

"Oh, yes," she said. "This one is on its way. Prep for birth!" She took off the headlight and dropped it on the trolley next to her.

Suddenly all three nurses moved into a flurry of activity. One of them got behind Ginny's back and pushed her further forward whenever the doctor told her to push. Within a quarter of an hour, Sherlock saw the tiny pale head of his daughter being born. The doctor slipped her gloved fingers underneath the baby's head inside Ginny's vagina and put two fingers on each side of the baby's neck.

"Mind the splash, Mr. Holmes," the doctor said and gestured at the floor with her head.

Then the doctor tugged underneath his daughter's chin just a little and suddenly she came out all at once along with a slurry of fluids that – ah, that's what she meant by _mind the splash_.

"Oh, those shoes are ruined, eh?" the nurse asked peering over his shoulder. "Happens all the time even though we tell them to mind the splash. Step back then. I need to get to your baby."

Sherlock stepped back and looked up at Ginny who had her head resting against the nurse's chest who was still sitting behind her with her legs on either side of Ginny's arms. The nurse was carding through Ginny's hair and murmuring words of encouragement.

"Ginny?" Sherlock asked, looking at her, feeling like he had failed in some important way. "Should I have done that?"

"Pfft," Ginny said and waved a hand dismissively at him without even opening her arms.

"Daddy, would you like to cut the umbilical cord?" the nurse asked after they had clamped it about an inch from the baby's belly. She was holding her in the blanket and the baby was lying there looking slightly stunned. Sherlock knew exactly how she felt.

"Oh, God, it's starting again," Ginny moaned.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up. "That would be the placenta! I'll need that and the umbilical cord before we leave."

When the doctor and all three nurses looked at him like he had said something disturbing, he added, "I'm a scientist."

"Oh," they all said at the same time.

One of the nurses reached over with a pair of dangerously sharp clippers and snipped off the baby's umbilical cord a few inches above where it was clamped with a plastic clip. Then she was wiped down roughly with the blanket and wrapped up in a new one and handed to Sherlock.

"Here you go, Daddy," the nurse said. "Keep an eye on baby while we stitch up your wife."

"Please stop calling me Daddy. I'm not your father. And she's not my wife," he said and then the nurse put his daughter in his arms.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, looking down at her. "Oh."

She seemed to weigh nothing at all, as though she had still not come fully into the world. Her eyes were squinted against the lights. The gel they had smeared on her eyes made it harder to see what they looked like. He took an edge of the swaddling blanket and gently wiped some of it away. She looked at him, or tried to. He looked back.

She had Ginny's nose, thin and delicate. Her hair was barely there, a tiny swirl of down so pale it almost looked white. Everything but her face was wrapped up in the blanket. She had his mouth. He looked at the delicate webbing of capillaries in the shell of her ears.

"Oh," he breathed again. She blinked at him.

"Don't keep her all to yourself!" one of the nurses said, bumping Sherlock with her hip. "Let her mum have a peek, too, before we've got to take her!"

"Take her?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"Let me see," Ginny called from the bed.

Her voice was raw from screaming but she was smiling, even if her face looked pale and tired. She reached up a hand and pulled back the swaddling blanket and released one of the baby's arms. It seemed so long and thin.

"You should feed her up a bit," Sherlock said to Ginny, who laughed weakly.

Ginny ran a finger along the baby's impossibly small arm. Sherlock was amazed that a whole person could be this Lilliputian. He had read in one of the baby books that by two months, the baby would have doubled her weight. He didn't understand how Ginny's breasts could possibly feed the baby enough that she would have doubled her weight in eight weeks. How could someone become twice as big in eight weeks?

"Did you decide on a name?" Ginny asked. For some inexplicable reason, she had left the naming up to him. He had asked if she wanted to honor her sister or her aunt but she said a name wasn't going to honor them any more than the two of them already had by catching Georgia's murderer and getting her aunt out of prison.

"Aurelia," he said softly.

"Does it mean something?"

"Yes. It's from Latin, derived from the word _aureus_ which means golden."

"Hm," Ginny said and looked up at him. "I like it."

"You were very loud," he said and she laughed at the disapproval in his voice.

"Now you know not to get me pregnant," she said, and he bent down and kissed her cheek.

"Welcome to the world, Aurelia," Sherlock said to his daughter. "It's full of idiots and hopefully, you won't turn out to be one. This is your mother. Her name is Ginny and I fell in love with her because her laugh sounded like it was made of light and I think it's possible you are as well. So I named you Aurelia. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I'm your father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do plan to continue the adventures of Sherlock and Ginny but it may be a while before I get to it. I feel like I've given birth, having written, edited, and posted this whole thing in less than a month! I need a little recovery. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's been a fabulous experience.
> 
> Love,  
> Teddy

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome emails from readers about anything that tickles your fancy, even if it's just randomness!
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com  
> Teddy


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